


Coda

by TasteTheRainbow



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:18:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasteTheRainbow/pseuds/TasteTheRainbow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laying your heart on the line while drunk off your ass is never a good idea, and nobody knows that better than Jensen, editor-in-chief of Coda Online. But a fifth of whiskey and one incredibly wasted blog post does give him the chance to rebuild his friendship with Jared, who he hasn't spoken to in two years. Now all he has to do is convince Jared that he's not the same guy he was in college, which may prove difficult since Jared's not, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coda

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 spn_j2_bigbang challenge.

  


It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't supposed to happen at all.

Jensen's drinking from a beer bottle, feeling happy and slightly buzzed while typing his review of the latest Ever Afters album for his website, Coda. In the last few years, he's become somewhat of a local authority on unsigned bands, and his words have the ability to generate sales. It's a responsibility he takes pretty seriously. Or, ya know, seriously enough to listen to the album a couple of times before he starts seriously drinking from the bottle at his side. 

When he's listened twice, he pulls the buds from his ears and reaches for the television remote, bare feet propped up on the edge of his coffee table. He's barely paying attention to the background noise when whatever rock doc of the moment VH-1 is airing comes back from commercial. _Music and Sexuality_. Fan-fucking-tastic. His _favorite_ subject. 

Rolling his eyes, he tips his bottle, minimizes the review document and opens a new one. Ranting about the general public's interest in rock stars' fucking habits and how it became social commentary in the first place, seems much more interesting at the moment. Who knows? Maybe he'll be short an editorial someday and actually post it.

His fingers work swiftly, tracking his opinion on his new subject.

>   
>  **The number one answer to the question “Why become a rock star?” has always been and will forever be, “to get laid.” It's a fact of life in this thing called rock and roll, and I can't begrudge one single artist for it. To be truthful, if I could play a lick to save my life, I'd be rollin' in groupie love, too. Sex sells (clichés are such for a reason, kids) and gratuitous stories about excessive sex with porn stars and strippers sell reputations and, in turn, records.**   
> 

>   
>  **The problem, as I see it, is not that we have an interest in the personal or, more accurately, the sex lives of our favorite musicians. The problem is that, for so many artists and consumers alike, we have become more interested in who's fucking who than we are about the music itself.**   
> 

Stopping to take another drink, Jensen shakes his head and can't tell if he's actually onto something here or if he's just slightly tipsy and spewing trash. He'll worry about that later. For now, he just wants to get his thoughts out of his head and onto the screen.

It's working famously and he's amassed almost an entire page of musings when he hears the voice – the one that stops him cold every time that stupid fucker shows up on one of these VH-1 commentaries. 

Lifting his head, Jensen takes a hard drink and tries to tell himself that Jared Padalecki is not any more attractive than he used to be. That even now, two years after they broke up, he doesn't still have the power to turn Jensen completely inside the fuck out. He tells himself that the floppy hair is ridiculous for a grown man who wants to be taken seriously, and that the bright eyes and the wide smile are in no way an invitation for sex. There's nothing particularly special about Jared or what he has to say.

“As a fan, an artist's sexual orientation shouldn't matter, and I know that. And as a journalist, it doesn't make a bit of difference.” Jared shakes his hair out of his eyes and Jensen bitterly thinks that it looks unprofessional to do so on camera. Or something. “But as a gay man, it _does_ matter. I mean, everybody wants to feel a connection with the music they listen to. And you can do that with a really great song, but if you know the person who wrote it or who's singing it, just gets it? Whether it should matter or not, it does, ya know?”

Yeah, Jensen knows. He knows exactly how Jared feels about sexuality and music. For fuck's sake, he's heard it a million fucking times, thank you very much. Well, not lately, being as they haven't spoken in two years. But before, Jensen heard loads about how Jared felt in regards to sexuality and music. And sexuality and politics. Sexuality and literature. Sexuality and motherfucking breakfast cereal. 

His fingers are moving before he realizes that he's still typing, and maybe drinking a little bit more than he should. Oh, fuck it. He can always edit later. Might as well write what he's thinking. Maybe he'll stumble onto something useable by accident.

>   
> 
> 
> **Who the fuck cares if a person is gay, straight, bi-sexual, transsexual, or what the fuck ever anyway? Does it matter in the making of great music? No. All it manages to do, once the proverbial cat is out of the bag, is shift focus from the fucking music, which is supposed to be the most important thing anyway, to the artist. Music is supposed to be the great equalizer, the shit that brings us all together regardless of race, creed, sexual orientation, language, or whatever the fuck else that separates us. How the fuck's it supposed to do that if every time we hear it, we have to think about your motherfucking interview with Rolling fucking Stone where you confess that the 'baby, baby, baby' you can't wait to get home and fuck is your secret gay lover from wherever the fuck, who turns you out like nobody ever has? I can make my own assumptions about the song, thanks. I don't need your personal input to make it better.**  
> 

>   
> 
> 
> **And while we're on the subject of personal input, I'd like to say that I think so-called “rock historians” and self-proclaimed “music experts” need to shut the fuck up about their goddamn opinions for thirty seconds and let the rest of us decide how we fucking feel about shit for a change. I don't need to see your goddamn face on my television telling me how awesome it is to be a gay man in America. You're out, we get it. Just shut the fuck up and talk about the music.**  
> 

>   
> 
> 
> **You used to be able to do that, remember? We would talk about music for hours, like all the way through the night whether we fucked before or after, or not at all? It didn't matter back then, because the music mattered, man. You didn't need the whole fucking world to know you got off on a dick up your ass. You just needed them to know that they shouldn't waste their money on Fall Out Boy, and should maybe invest it in 63 Flavors, instead. Remember that? When you wrote that awesome review about the Flavors show, back before they sold out and started bastardizing emo for their own financial gain? You did that. You used to get it. And it wasn't about sexuality. It was about music, man.**  
> 

Jensen stops typing long enough to stand up, press the heel of his hand tight against his eye and push the computer away. He should stop this shit. Stop torturing himself. Stop thinking about Jared all together. He should just write his review and go to bed. It's well after four in the morning and most of Chicago is sleeping. Why shouldn't he be?

Instead, he stumbles into the kitchen and grabs the half-empty bottle of Jack from the counter that Chris left the last time he was over. Jensen shrugs as he tips it back, needing more than a beer to combat this tension settling in his gut.

When he gets back to the couch, he trains his eyes back to the television. Some chick in a striped sweater and thick-rimmed glasses is talking through her nose about the bravery of Freddie Mercury or some shit and he just rolls his eyes and takes another long pull from the bottle. He takes another drag from his cigarette as he shakes his head. What the hell is the world coming to anyway?

And then Jared's back. His shirt is fucking pink. It should make him look like a total ass clown, but it really only accentuates the tan he shouldn't have, living in New York like he does now, and forces Jensen to remember the way he used to writhe and moan and beg while Jensen licked a dirty trail down his chest. Stupid fucking pink shirt!

This time, he gulps long and hard from the bottle, cigarette burning low between his fingers as he pulls his computer back into his lap and starts typing once again.

>   
> **What kind of self-respecting man wears pink on television anyway? Are you just trying to force the fact that you're 'out and proud' down our throats? Like you used to force your cock down my throat? You don't think I remember, do you? Of course I remember. The way you loved it. Begged for it. Fucking needed it. Oh, I remember. And I remember the way you used to grin like a fuckin' Cheshire Cat when your tongue was in my ass, too. For a guy who wasn't gay before you met me, you sure as hell loved eating my ass. But I guess I wasn't really complaining, was I? Because who am I kidding? The way you licked me, and fingered me, and fucked me was like poetry. Like fuckin' Dylan lyrics, man.**  
> 

>   
> **Not that I sit around thinking about it anymore or anything. Even when you're sellin' out on television like you do, I'm not sittin' here in my living room thinking about what a fucking moronic idiot I was to let you get away. I'm really fucking not. Because you made your choice. You're the one who wanted the world to know you liked dick. Like you wanted to fuckin' advertise it or some shit. Like I wasn't enough for you. Couldn't be enough for me to know. Had to let everyone else in on it, too. You were enough for me. Didn't need the whole fucking world to know I was riding your cock. Why wasn't I enough for you?**  
> 

He's not even considering the fact that he sounds like a pathetic little girl with her first broken heart. Nobody's gonna see it anyway. And he's a little too drunk to notice that he's basically admitting, at least to himself, that he's still in love with Jared. That would totally explain why he hasn't had another serious relationship since.

He glances up again when that voice sounds. Laying his laptop to the side, he lights another cigarette and clutches at the neck of the whiskey bottle. All his inebriated brain can seem to circle and land on is this one memory of Jared stopping by after classes to drop off an article one night during Jensen's senior year at Northwestern, Jared's sophomore at the University of Chicago. Back when _Coda_ was a magazine. 

It was all hard copy in those days, nothing online, and the living room in the house Jensen shared with Chris and Mike was perpetually covered in print-outs and notebook paper. They typed everything; it wasn't the Dark Ages or anything, but there was still a lot of printed research – magazines and newspapers. And CDs, because Jensen refused to succumb to the downloading trend.

  


Jensen was laying in the middle of the floor, reading an article on the post-punk revival, glorifying the likes of The Strokes, The Hives, and The Vines. He was sucking on the cap of a highlighter and considering whether or not awesome bands were a good enough reason to relocate to Europe, when the front door flew open and Jared tripped over the coffee table.

“What the hell is that doin' there?” he asked, rubbing his shin and dropping his backpack to the floor. “Has that always been there?”

Jensen rolled his eyes. Yes, he always kept his coffee table right in front of the door. “How in the hell you can tell when a band changes one fucking lyric on stage, but can't recognize the most blatantly obvious details of your own fucking every day life is so far beyond me, I don't even know where to begin,” he laughed, hopping up off the floor to take the disk Jared was offering. 

He always wondered why Jared never e-mailed his articles, being as he lived in a dorm downtown and Jensen lived twenty minutes away in a house in Evanston. It wasn't a road trip or anything, but still. 

“You're not wearing a shirt.”

Rolling his eyes, Jensen jammed the disk into his PC tower and loaded the file. “I stand corrected,” he retorted. “Your powers of observation are astounding, Padalecki.”

Jared let himself into the kitchen and grabbed a soda from the refrigerator. He had turned twenty-one in July, but only seemed to drink when they were out with a group. Jensen just assumed it was because he had to drive home and he was a responsible young man, or whatever Jared seemed to want his mother to believe.

He didn't hear Jared return, too busy reading over the greatness that was every Padalecki editorial, tracking changes and huffing in agreement. He sure as hell felt the sweet, cola-scented breath against his neck when Jared bent low and pointed at his screen over his shoulder, though. 

“You're a fucking idiot, Ackles.” Jared spoke so close to his ear, Jensen could feel the moisture of his breath. “That line is genius and you know it.” He didn't even move as he continued to talk, and Jensen was finding it a little more uncomfortable than he wanted to admit. “Don't be cuttin' shit because you're jealous now.”

“Jealous of what?” Jensen aimed for amused, but even he recognized how short the attempt fell. 

“My brilliance,” Jared answered simply, and if Jensen didn't know that they were nothing more than friends, he would have sworn that Jared's lips brushed the bend of his neck when he pulled away. Standing to his full height, he towered over Jensen and stared down at him with something darker than his usual humor. Fuck. Hell. Fucking hell. 

Sliding back, Jensen swiveled in his chair and moved across the floor, snatching the article he had been reading before Jared arrived. “You should read this,” he recommended, eyes refusing to meet Jared's as he waved it across the distance.

“Can we stop?” Jared asked, up in his space again. “Just stop pretending that I drive all the way over here to give you fucking articles, on a disk I could just as easily e-mail, and get to the part where we make out on the couch?”

If he was being honest with himself back then, Jensen would have admitted that something had been brewing between him and Jared for more than a little while –probably since they'd met back in high school. He would have manned up and owned the fact that Jared's opinions and his sense of humor were crazy attractive, and that his body was out of control. He would just accept that he wanted to do wicked and brutal things to that body, and that he sometimes got off thinking about it.

He didn't have time to admit shit, though, because Jared was on him. Lips dry and hot and eager against his, and Jensen could’ve fought back, but he didn't. He just. He didn't. 

Jared's hands were all over his chest and back, in his hair and on his face. His lips ran down the side of Jensen's neck and then back to his mouth, tongue wet and kisses deep. They somehow managed to stumble onto the couch, Jared on top of him. Jensen was pretty sure it wasn't a coincidence. 

It certainly gave him the leverage necessary to whisper things like, “ _been wantin' this for so long_ ,” against Jensen's ear while they rutted against each other like they were still teenagers. 

What the fuck was going on? When did Jared go from the shy kid who used to follow him around the school paper newsroom to this aggressive sexual being? And when the hell did he start doing it with Jensen? Was there a memo that Jensen had missed somewhere? He sure as hell didn't remember this being “their thing.”

“Woah, woah.” He finally managed to create some room just as Jared's hand was deftly unbuttoning his pants. “What the fuck, man?”

There was no shame and no confusion in Jared's eyes. “Tell me you don't want it,” he insisted, thumb trailing over the line of skin just below Jensen's jeans. 

Fuck. 

Jensen wanted to tell him just that. Jared was too close. He was a friend. He couldn't know. Jensen couldn't tell him. The only guys who knew that Jensen was gay were the ones he fucked on occasion when he really liked the band and the drummer had awesome hands. Or when he was at a club, by himself, and felt free enough to let some stranger grind up on him until they found some back room or something. Jensen didn't admit it to anyone he knew.

But it felt like Jared was looking through him, like he could see everything Jensen was too scared to admit. More than that, it looked like maybe he liked what he was seeing. And for the first time, he wanted to trust someone with his secret. Not just someone –Jared.

“Fuck, Jared,” he sighed, head flopping back against the pillows. Instead of answering the question, he rolled his hips against Jared's and groaned when that huge fucking hand wrapped around his hard cock. 

From there, things moved so fast that Jensen didn't have time to consider what was happening. Jared jerked him off and then made the most obscenely hot noises known to any man when Jensen returned the favor. There was sucking later that night, and if one of Jared's fingers ended up in Jensen's ass, he pretends he doesn't remember anymore.

  


He's seriously fucked up. There's no other explanation for the way he's thinking, for being so fucking turned on at the thought of his ex – his stupid fucking ex with his big forehead and pink shirts and bullshit, sell-out job. It's gotta be the alcohol. He just needs to sleep it off. Everything will be back to normal tomorrow.

He saves the document, maximizes the original review post, and pastes it into the final version of tomorrow's blog. A couple clicks of the mouse, and he ambles back toward his bedroom. He passes out before he can settle fully into his mattress.

  


“Get the fuck up!”

Jensen bolts upright and then falls back against the mattress, head clutched in both hands in a hell of a lot of agonizing pain. “Jesus Christ!” he bites through clenched teeth, rolling against his pillow and burying his face. “The fuck outta my house!” he growls, pain shooting through his skull, rattling against his eye sockets. Damn, it's been a long time since he bothered to drink so much. He should really think about never doing it again.

“You wanna lay there and let the shit storm wash over you, fine.” 

Mike's gone before Jensen can process his words. Oh, who is he kidding? He's not processing anything right now. Fuckin’ hell, his head is about to explode, probably literally.

Five minutes later, Mike is back, yanking the blankets away and pulling Jensen by the arm until he falls onto the floor. “Motherfucker, I will kill you,” Jensen threatens. Though, seeing as he can barely lift his head from the floor, it might be an idle threat.

“Dude, you're gonna wanna see this,” Mike insists.

Grumbling, Jensen manages to lift himself to a standing position. Well, a somewhat standing position. He's on his feet, at least. His fingers scrabble against the wall for purchase as he sways. Light isn't supposed to stab you in the face, is it? “Goddamn, I drank too much last night,” he grits, mostly to himself.

“Ya think?” Mike quirks an eyebrow, but he doesn't smile and that's when Jensen knows that something is really fucking wrong. Mike's the kind of guy who will burn you on three levels at one time, in ways you won't even understand, and he'll do it with a grin that makes you think he's paying you the biggest of compliments. When he's not smiling, he actually means it. And that's… well, that's bad.

Jensen scrubs his hand over his face and forces himself to focus. The quicker he gets Mike out of his apartment, the quicker he can get back to passing out again.

After a quick stop off in the bathroom to brush the flavor of dead ass off his tongue and splash a little water on his face, he finds Mike on the couch, laptop open on the coffee table. “What's the emergency, Mikey?” He grabs his cell phone from the place he left it last night and notes the 26 missed calls. What the hell?

“You tell me,” is Mike's answer as he pulls the computer onto his lap and flips it around for Jensen to see.

He can't really tell what happens in the next five minutes, being as he goes from squinting at the screen, to running toward the bathroom, to vomiting everything he's eaten in the last week, to falling back against the cool tiles, head resting against the edge of the bathtub, all in one continuous string of motion. He lays there for only a second before charging into the living room again and yanking the computer out of Mike's hand.

Mike's fingers card through his dark hair, leaving it to stand out on all sides of his head. “Jenny, what the hell, man?” 

Jensen types furiously, pulling the entire blog offline as quickly as he possibly can. 

The review. He posted the review of The Ever Afters before he went to bed last night. At least, that's what he thought he was doing. Apparently, his drunken mind couldn't tell the difference between that five-hundred word review, and his three-thousand word rambling rant of nonsense, because that's what was staring back at him from his own fucking website this morning.

Jesus Christ.

It's been two years since he felt this way, since he woke up to a punch in the gut he never saw coming. Since Jared ruined everything.

  


“You're up early,” Jensen grunted, falling onto the end of the couch. He buried his face in the pillow and groaned when Jared's long fingers wormed their way under the leg of his sweat pants. Lifting his head, Jensen pried one eye open and couldn't really help smiling back at the way Jared chewed his cereal and still managed to grin happily.

His fingers brushed against Jensen's sleep-warmed skin. “Class at ten,” he offered as an explanation. 

“Right,” Jensen nodded, grunting as he sat back up and grabbed the Pop Tart waiting for Jared on the coffee table. “Sometimes I forget you're such a baby.”

Jensen had already graduated and was maintaining his website full-time while submitting freelance editorials and reviews to make ends meet. Jared was finishing up his senior year, officially living in on-campus housing, but spending most nights at Jensen's. It was getting more and more difficult for Jensen to let him leave.

He was almost asleep again, lulled by the feeling of Jared's fingers and the low din of the morning news on the television. It wasn't until he heard Jared say, “This is such motherfuckin' bullshit, man,” that he forced his eyes open and sat up. Jared was gesturing widely at the television with his free hand. “How is it 2008, and we're still talking about gay rights? How are we still _debating_ whether or not it's _acceptable_ for human fucking beings to be together?”

Jensen cleared his throat and let his head flop back against the couch. For a guy who wasn't even out of the closet, Jared sure had a lot of opinions on the subject of “gay rights.” Jensen didn't mind listening, really. Jared had always been interested in social issues and human rights. Most of the time he just blew up, ranted for awhile, and then started in on the next cause he thought was worthy of his attention. He'd written a couple of really great articles about the power of music to affect social change and Jensen thought the kid was pretty brilliant. It was maybe one of the reasons Jensen found himself so crazy in love, even now.

“So why don't you do somethin' about it?” Jensen prodded, just like he always did when Jared was in one of these moods. It was one thing to write articles and stomp around the apartment like a crazy person, but if he was never going to do anything Jensen didn't see where Jared could so much call himself an _activist_.

Jared's eyes were wide and his hand stilled against Jensen's leg. “You'd be okay with that?” 

With a shrug, Jensen put his feet back on the floor and pushed off of the couch. “Whatever makes you happy, man.”

“You would seriously do that for me?” 

Casting a glance over his shoulder, Jensen could feel his eyebrow shoot up. “Do what? Man, we're talkin' about you takin' a stand, not me. That whole 'Power to the People' thing is yours, not mine.” It wasn't that Jensen didn't care about shit going on in the world. He just didn't care like Jared did.

“Yeah, but if I'm gonna come out,” Jared started, voice drawing closer as he approached the kitchen, “I'm not gonna hide you away like some dirty little secret or something.”

“Come out?” The words seemed to bounce off of the kitchen walls. 'Come out' as in tell the world that they were gay? As in the one thing Jensen never intended to tell anyone, ever in his life? “Like _out_ out?”

“No, like out to dinner,” Jared rolled his eyes. “Of course I mean out out.”

“Why the fuck would I wanna do that?”

“Because I do. We could do it together.”

Jensen shook his head and huffed a sarcastic chuckle while pouring himself a cup of coffee. It was cute how Jared thought that holding hands and running out the front door together was going to solve all of the world's problems. It was adorable how he thought that people were open-minded enough now to handle it. It was downright cuddly that he thought Proposition 8 and all of the other anti-gay marriage legislation was bullshit that they could actually strike down with a petition and some celebrity support. 

“And then what? We stand in the middle of the storm with all the other 'Out and Proud' homos and pretend that we're actually part of some big revolution? Meanwhile, our friends and family are all pissed off that we're the face of a new campaign we didn't bother telling them about a couple fucking years ago? Only to have the goddamn moral majority strike us down in the end and thereby nullify all of our sordid troubles anyway? Sorry, Jay. Not my thing. You do what makes you happy, though.”

The thing was, Jensen meant it. Back then, he meant that Jared should do what made him happy. He just didn't think that he would be happy without Jensen.

  


This is bad. This is his every fear come to life. This is epically catastrophic on so many levels that Jensen has to run to the bathroom and puke a second time before he can finish deleting the post.

His cell phone rings again when he's heading back to the living room and he wipes the sleeve of his tee shirt over his lips as Mike returns with a steaming mug of coffee. “It's not the end of the world, Jen,” he says, sinking back to the couch and blowing over the top of his cup.

Ha! Not the end of the world? Mike has clearly sustained some sort of brain trauma. If he thinks for a second that this isn't the end of the world, he's not coming to the table with a full deck. 

Jensen posted an incoherent blog on the site that serves as his main source of income, therefore damaging not only his credibility, but also threatening his livelihood. He outed himself, not with a cutesy 'I'm Gay' cover story in _People_ magazine or something, but in full, Technicolor detail. Oh, and he also basically cried to everyone who would listen, including Jared himself (who's on the subscriber list) that he still misses his motherfucking ex-boyfriend.

Mike's right. It's not the end of the world. It's so far beyond that Jensen can't see the end of the world anymore. “What's the waiting period on a hand gun in Illinois?” he growls, coffee clutched between his hands as he slumps into the couch and rests his heavy head against the back cushions. 

“Well, at least now you can stop pretending that we're all too stupid to know what's going on.”

It's not the words so much as the meaning of them that send Jensen's heart thudding against his ribs. Licking his lips, he white-knuckles his cup and chuckles nervously. “Oh, come on, Mike,” he shrugs it off easily, like he always does. “You know I was drunk, right? When I wrote that? It's not like it's true or anything.”

Mike doesn't even laugh, just shakes his head slowly, like maybe he's disappointed in Jensen or something. “Really?” He meets Jensen’s eyes and there's no anger there or anything, just a deep-seeded hurt, betrayal. Real pain. “You're gonna look me in the eye and continue lying to my face? Haven't you done that long enough, Jensen?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Jensen defends, though it sounds weak and vulnerable. 

He's busted. There's no way around it and there's nothing he can do to stop it. He can't take this one back. Jensen learned years ago that sometimes it's just better to admit defeat like a man. Sometimes, there is no rewind.

  


“So, tequila really makes me kinda... loose,” Jensen stammered, chest still heaving as he lay sweaty next to Jared on the living room floor.

Rolling his head to the side, Jared raised an eyebrow and the corner of his lip quirked in amusement. “We didn't drink tequila tonight, Jensen,” he pointed out, hand sliding slow and easy down the center of his chest before dragging back up again. Lazy. Unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world to lay naked on Jensen's floor and come down from that post-orgasmic high. 

High. “Oh yeah,” Jensen nodded, eyes drooping heavily as he tried. “Musta been that weed Misha gave us, then,” he offered as an excuse for actually letting things go beyond fooling around with Jared into real, live, dick-in-his-ass fucking.

Jared hoisted himself up on an elbow and looked down at Jensen's face, brow knitted in concentration until Jensen popped one eye open and caught the glow of that million-watt grin. “Don't,” was his only word as he brushed his fingers over Jensen's sternum just as he had done his own a second ago. “Just, don't pretend this wasn't what you wanted. Please?”

And he couldn't anymore. Jensen had wanted Jared for longer than he was probably willing to admit to himself. Wanted him so bad, he could practically feel the desire crawling around under his skin for months, every time they were together. Even when they were still in the 'making out on the couch' phase, Jensen didn't admit it, but he wanted it. Fuck, he wanted Jared.

“You just gotta understand, Jared,” he started, throat drying at the prospect of admitting, even to Jared, that this was something he wanted. That it was something he needed. “I don't,” he shook his head and clenched his eyes tightly shut in frustration.

“Dude, who knows you better than me?” Jensen could honestly say that they both knew that answer. “I'm not gonna out you. Hell, I don't wanna out myself,” Jared laughed and flopped back onto the floor. “Until you, I didn't really give my sexuality much thought one way or the other.”

Jensen let the weight of that statement wash over him as he let his eyes open, focusing his vision on the fucked-out, sweat-moistened kid beside him. So goddamn gorgeous, and Jared didn't even know it. Had no fucking clue what he did to Jensen, what he'd always done to him. “So you're sayin' you, what? Caught the gay from me?”

“Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying. Gay is some kind of disease, and I contracted it from you.”

“Smart ass.”

“Well, if you weren't the dumb ass,” Jared pointed out, sitting with a sharp grunt. “Look, I'm not asking you for anything more than this, okay? I like you. You like me. We hang out together all the time anyway. Nobody has to know about this, alright? I'm fine with locking ourselves in the proverbial closet and just fucking ourselves to death in there.”

“You are?” Jensen had slept with his fair share of guys who were happy to stay in the closet, but they were aspiring rock stars and one-off strangers that didn't really have the time or interest in a relationship anyway. The few that he bothered getting to know first were never okay with keeping things a secret. 

“Nobody's business anyway,” Jared shrugged, and Jensen thought maybe Jared was a little more perfect than he ever gave the kid credit for after all. “Just,” he stopped again and looked over his shoulder to the place Jensen was still laying on the floor, “just don't pretend it was an accident, okay? Not with me.”

  


“I'm gay,” Jensen says out loud, the word feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue. It's the first time he's said it in two years. The first time he's said it to anyone other than Jared.

For a long time they don't speak, and Jensen knows that Mike wants to ask 'why.' Why didn't Jensen tell him sooner? Why was he afraid? Why didn't he trust his friends with something like this? Why has he never talked about it? But he doesn't ask.

Instead, he just gives a nod, takes another long drink of his coffee and says, “Thanks,” sincerely, like he's actually grateful that Jensen's being honest with him for a change.

The weird thing is that saying it out loud actually kind of makes Jensen feel better. He honestly didn't think that it mattered, keeping who he sleeps with to himself. He's been holding onto the secret for so long, it's such a part of him now that he doesn't normally think twice about it. It's just something that he does, like brushing his teeth and automatically categorizing bands by genre during the first song he hears them play. 

He really thought he'd gotten over the guilt of it all, that it didn't bother him to hold it back anymore. He has rationalized every reason and excuse and has told himself over and over again that it doesn't matter. That nobody will care anyway. But knowing that he doesn't have to watch his back, sneak away, cover his tracks meticulously, and keep track of every half-truth and almost-lie he tells to make sure that he's covered all the bases, that nobody knows? It's almost a weight off of his shoulders.

The phone rings again and Jensen ignores the call in favor of turning it off. He's just not ready to deal with anyone else yet. When Mike's rings on the tails of Jensen's, he knows who it is. “Tell him I don't wanna talk about it.”

Mike rolls his eyes, flips his phone open and then stands from the couch with a shrug. “Too bad,” he says simply, walking quickly through the apartment.

Jensen hears the voice before he sees them round the corner and it's all he can do to pull his head from the couch before there's a worried-looking Chris Kane standing in the middle of his living room with his hands on his hips and his lips set in a stern line. “The fuck you think you're doing?” he demands.

Jensen takes the time to let his eyes drift down to the other end of the couch where Danneel is lowering herself onto the seat, brow furrowed in deep concern. “I think what Chris is saying,” she grits pointedly, like they talked about this before they came over and Chris isn't following the plan, “is that we're worried about you.”

“Yeah. That. And also that we wanna know what the fuck you think you're doing,” Chris gives her the same pointed look right back and then laser-focuses those crystal blue eyes back at Jensen's face. 

“I was working on a review last night,” he starts to reluctantly explain himself because it's Chris and he's not going to back down until he gets an answer. Also, because he's too hungover, and Chris will only get louder if Jensen doesn't tell him what he wants to know. Louder is not better. Not this morning. “Television was on. There was whiskey involved. Just... I don't know, man,” he says with a shrug that sends another wave of nausea through his stomach.

“Sweetie, that wasn't an accident,” Danneel informs him. “Your drunk typing has way more typos and keyboard smashes.” There's a twinkle in her eye when he risks a glance in her direction. “You okay?”

With a groan, he pulls away from her touch and moves his feet to the floor. He's pretty sure he's never going to feel human again, the hangover pushing at both sides of his head like it's an alien trying to take over his body or something, when he takes the time to actually look at his three friends. “I'm fine, guys. Can you all just go home and let me be fine by myself for a little while?” 

He loves them, but this is exactly what he's been trying to avoid for the better part of thirty years. He doesn't want to talk about it. With anyone. Ever.

“Sure. Just as soon as you tell us what the fuck,” Chris shrugs, and Jensen notes that he still hasn't moved from his place in the middle of the living room. Mike's in the recliner and Danneel's hugging her knees to her chest at the other end of the couch.

With a heavy sigh, he shakes his head and lets out a breath. His brain is still throbbing against his skull, but the nausea seems to be subsiding. So he figures that's something, at least. When he told Mike, he felt better. Maybe letting Chris and Danneel in on the truth isn't the worst thing in the world. “What do you wanna know?”

Chris opens his mouth, Jensen presumes to ask what the fuck he thinks he's doing again, but Danneel cuts him off with a harsh glare. “We all knew, Jensen,” she says, and he's tired of that hurt look they're all giving him. “Just kind of a don't ask, don't tell kind of thing or whatever.” Nobody asks. Jensen never tells. He's fine with that. Obviously, they're not. “But then I wake up to this rambling blog about it, and I gotta say, man, it hurts. I mean, it's one thing if you don't wanna talk about it. But to tell the whole world when you won't even tell your friends?”

“It wasn't like I did it on purpose,” he interrupts. Because really? If he was going to come out of the closet, do any of them honestly believe that he would choose to do it so publicly? Or so haphazardly? He's a writer, dammit. It would have sounded better than that drunken, nonsensical garbage if he had planned any of this.

“So what happened then?” 

Jensen almost forgot Mike was even there for a minute. “Um, heh,” he chuckles to himself and then flops back against the couch, legs sprawled and arms waving to the sides. “Jared?” It's the best answer he can give to pretty much any question they could possibly ask at this point.

  


Jensen wasn't the most popular guy in his high school, but he also wasn't at the bottom of the barrel. He spent most of his time in the newspaper office, working on album reviews and editorials about the wretched state of the music industry. Back then, in 2001, pop music was crazy popular and even the indie bands on the scene were buying into the bubble gum phenomenon. At least, that's how he saw it. His opinions on the trend weren't exactly the most popular thing in the world, or at least, in his school.

His portable Discman was on the corner of his desk and he was tapping his pen in time with The Shins in his ear buds when a large shadow fell over his workstation. Great. Reluctantly pulling his feet from the desk, he looked up with the intent of letting Tom, his prep-ass editor-in-chief, know just how definitely he was not going to add Limp Bizkit or Linkin-fucking-Park to his “best albums of the year” column. 

Instead of Tom's indignant eyes, though, Jensen found himself staring into the bright, hazel eyes of some kid he'd never seen. “The fuck are you?” he asked, dropping his pen onto the desktop as the kid handed him a folded piece of newsprint.

“Name's Jared. Just transferred in,” he explained, grabbing the rolling chair from the next station and straddling it, long arms crossed over the back as he leaned forward, waiting. What the hell for, Jensen didn't know.

Jensen glanced at the paper in his hand. Huh. “This column is usually reserved for recommendations and reviews,” he reads, glancing up to see the kid watching him intently, “but this is neither. You shouldn't buy _The Photo Album_ by Death Cab for Cutie. You _have_ to buy it.” With a huff, Jensen tossed the paper to the desk at his side and leaned back in his chair, expression challenging. “Death Cab, huh?”

“You heard it?” Jared challenged right back, undeterred by any air of superiority Jensen was trying to affect. 

With a shrug, Jensen grabbed his pen and started tapping it against his thigh again. “Yeah, I got it,” he nods easily. “Wouldn't say it's a 'must have' for every collection, but it's not bad.”

“Not bad?” Jared guffawed. “Oh whatever, dude. It's amazing.”

“ _The Forbidden Love_ was a better EP,” Jensen fired back and he smiled when Jared was the one shrugging this time. “Where'd you transfer from?”

“San Antonio.”

“Oh yeah?” Leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees, Jensen looked up. “Any decent musicians ever come outta San Antonio, Jared?”

Without hesitation, Jared said, “Gibby Haynes.” 

Impressed, Jensen nodded his head. “Butthole Surfers. Nice,” he winked and sat straight once again. With pursed lips, he studied the kid sitting before him. Skinny. Tall. Awkward. Cute. Smart. “Your column's a little cliché, but I think we can work with that.” Well, it's not like he was going to tell the kid he's impressed. Everyone in this room knew it was practically impossible to win Jensen over in a music discussion on the first try. He had a reputation to uphold. “Welcome to the team, Jared.”

“You know it's a high school paper, right?” Jared rolled his eyes and then his shoulders. “It's not like this was some kinda interview.”

Jensen smiled wickedly and put his ear buds back in, nodding toward the newspaper he was tossing back. Jared was right, of course. Jensen couldn't ban the kid from writing anything. But he could make sure that nothing he wrote ever got published. Could make his life hell if he wanted to. He just... he didn't want to. “Top fifteen albums of this year. You've got ten minutes.” He issued the assignment and watched as Jared pulled a pen out of his back pocket. “Nothing that appeared on the Billboard Hot 100.”

“Please,” Jared responded, smile wide and aimed right at Jensen. “Like that's even hard.”

Whether he managed to accomplish the task or not, Jensen knew that Jared wasn't going anywhere. He was, quite possibly, the closest Jensen had ever met to his equal (at least, inside this room). He had a feeling they were going to get along just fine.

  


“He was doin' one of those VH1 things, and he was pissin' me off. And I was drinking. And rambling,” he tries to explain to his friends, though it sounds just as stupid out loud as it really is. What was he thinking? Jesus Christ, he deserves this bullshit. “I meant to post a review. Instead,” he motions with a hand toward his computer and doesn't say anything else.

Finally, Chris moves to the couch and sinks to the place between Jensen and Danneel, scrubbing his hands over his face. “It ain't like it's even that bigga deal, really.” 

Jensen reaches for his laptop, logs onto his site, and pulls up a forum. “Not a big deal, huh? That why there's fourteen threads dedicated to my emotional demise?” He clicks on a link and pulls it up, more afraid to read what it says than any of his friends can possibly be. They just don't get it. They're all straight. Their lives are easier. 

He reads through the first thread, where some people claim he's got as much a right to get off however the fuck he wants to as the next guy. Some, though, seem to feel like he has some obligation to them, like keeping who he's fucking a secret is somehow destroying the delicate balance of their lives. Somebody says that Jensen's word has always been golden to her and now she's not sure she can trust anything he says. 

“That's bullshit,” Danneel pipes in. “Give me that.” She's across Chris's lap and pulling Jensen's laptop back to her corner of the couch before Jensen can even protest. “Who you were sleeping with was never an issue before this morning. It shouldn't be now,” she grumbles, fingers clicking furiously over the keys. Sometimes Jensen loves that she's so defensive of him. And sometimes he thinks she just likes riling his subscribers up with her less-than-tactful posts. Either way, it used to be entertaining. Today, nothing is.

“Shouldn't,” Jensen chuckles. “But it totally does. Which is why I never wanted it to come out in the first place.”

“The hell are you talkin' about?” Chris asks, eyebrow arched as though Jensen just started spontaneously speaking Mandarin or something. 

It's a speech he's practiced often – one that he's always been prepared to give, should an occasion arise for it. Heaving a sigh, he turns and leans against the armrest, one leg pulled up under his body. “Happens all the fuckin' time, man. You think you know somebody, right? And then you find out they're sleepin' with dudes, and suddenly, they're the gay guy in the group. I don't wanna be defined by my sexuality. I never have.”

“Jesus Christ,” Chris rolls his eyes.

“You watched that _American Idol_ bullshit this year, right Mikey?” Mike shrugs and takes another drink, like he wasn't constantly asking Jensen what he thought of this contestant or that one. “Adam Lambert is a perfect example, man. I mean, come on. Everybody knew it, right? You watched him all season. You knew he was gay, but there was no confirmation so there was mystery and everybody just kinda walked around like they were in on the big secret or whatever. Cut to a month after he loses the shit and he's on the cover of _Rolling Stone_ with a fuckin' snake crawling all over him, fuckin' anvil of a metaphor if I ever saw one, with the fucking ‘I’m Gay’ headline. People who loved him before don't want anything to do with him now. People who could have cared less know his name, his face, because he's the gay guy from _American Idol_. The motherfuckin' _Advocate_ rides his ass for not being gay enough. And sure, he's selling records or whatever, but it's on the shoulders of some big, gay marketing campaign. That's who he is now. Doesn't matter how many times he says it shouldn't matter. It does.”

“That's some proof positive right there, Jensen,” Mike concurs, bending to set his coffee cup on the floor beside the chair. “Except you forgot something.”

“What?”

“You're not a motherfucking rock star! You're a blogger. You get paid to post your opinions about rock stars on the internet. Nobody gives a flying fuck whose tongue is wedged up your ass. Unless that person happens to be a rock star, and therefore, _more interesting to the public than you_!”

Mike gets loud, but he doesn't get angry very often. Jensen cringes at the reaction and tries to square his shoulders. “It's not a rock star thing, Mike,” he argues back feebly. “I mean, that's an example that I know, but come on. Now that y'all know for sure, now that I've told you, it changes things. I mean, that's all you wanna talk about.”

“Bullshit,” Chris explodes beside him. “I don't give a goddamn whose ass you're fuckin'. Or who's fuckin' yours. Or whatever. I just wanna know why now. It's been two goddamn years since that kid moved to New York and you haven't said shit one about him in all this time. Why's he pushin' you over the fucking edge now?”

Before he can answer, Danneel says, “Because he never really got to deal with the break up the right way.”

“What?” Now Chris is looking at Danneel like she's the one speaking another language.

“Think about it,” she explains, setting Jensen's computer on the ground as she peers straight into his eyes. “He and Jared broke up. Jared left town. And who the hell was he supposed to talk to about it, huh? It's not like he could just mope around and shit. We didn't know. We couldn't help him through it.”

He can't be sure, but he thinks maybe Danneel's trying to make him feel guilty. He's not sure she could do such a stellar job of it on accident. “I didn't need help,” he insists. “Shit just broke down. Does that sometimes. Nothing anybody could have done about it.” 

It's not entirely true. Someone could have done something. Jensen could have.

  


  


“So what? This is it? If I come out of the closet, you're breaking up with me?” Jared's face was red, his expression confused. “You're giving me an ultimatum about this? Seriously?”

He didn't mean to. Jensen honestly hadn't meant to put it quite that way. But Jared didn't want a boyfriend he had to hide in the closet. And Jensen didn't want to come out. Neither was willing to give. What other option did he have?

“Jared, you gotta do what's best for you,” he started to explain for what felt like the ninety-fifth time. “And I gotta do what's best for me.”

“I _am_ what's best for you! You're what's best for me, idiot! I fucking _love_ you!”

“And I love you,” Jensen retorted, fighting like hell to keep his voice calm. Jared said he got it. He said he understood. He’d professed his undying love, even if they never told anyone else, more times than Jensen could count. “But you know how I feel about this.” The words hurt, but they had to be said.

Jared wasn't happy. He couldn't be, as long as he was forced to live under the radar. That much had become abundantly clear in the last month since the subject first came up. He needed to come out, to declare himself, to stop hiding and pretending. He needed to do it for himself and Jensen wasn't going to be the one who held him back from doing what made him happy, even if the very thought of it made him want to throw up.

“Are you really so scared of how people think of you that you're willing to let the best fucking thing that's ever happened to you walk out the door? For good?” 

Jensen winced at the words. Scared? He wasn't fucking scared. He just didn't want to deal with the hassle of it all. Didn't want to become something singular, when he was so much more complex. That was all.

“So that's it?” Jared volume shrank to almost-imperceptible. “You love me, just not enough to let anyone else know about it.” 

He should have said something. He should have thought about more than his fledgling website and the narrow-minded musings of conservative assholes who didn't know him from any of the other fags they verbally and physically assaulted. He should have realized that he was just a guy in Chicago typing shit about music. 

He should have done a lot of things differently. 

Instead, he shrugged. “Guess so.” He almost choked on the word, but it had to be said. He couldn't come out. He wasn't ready. Jared was. He had to. It had to end.

But Jared was never very good at letting Jensen have the final word. At the door, he turned. “Don't worry,” he assured Jensen. “Far as I'm concerned, you're just some guy I fucked around with for awhile. Not worth tellin' anybody about, so,” he shrugged as easily as he had the first day they met, “your secret's safe.”

  


The silence that hangs in the living room is frustrating. Jensen knows that none of them knows what to say. What can they offer that isn't going to sound trite and hollow?

“You know he didn't mean it, right?” Danneel is the first to break the silence. “He didn't mean you weren't worth tellin' anybody about.”

Jensen knows that. On some level, he knows that Jared was hurt and he was lashing out. But on another, Jensen knows that he had every right to feel hurt. And he has a sinking suspicion that Jared does think of him as just some guy he fucked around with now. If he ever thinks of him at all.

“For what it's worth, I think you did the right thing,” Chris claps his hand on Jensen's knee and nods his head. “I mean, you weren't ready and he was. Two different places. Love ain't enough to cover that shit, man. Bad timing's all.”

Danneel slaps his arm. “You're about as romantic as a dirty sponge, you know that?” Chris rolls his eyes. “I swear to God, I don't know how you write a motherfucking love song to save your life.” Attention back on Jensen, she says, “Sweetie, you may have let him go, but far as I know, gay marriage isn't legal in the state of New York yet, so you might still stand a chance.”

“A chance at what?”

“Getting him back, dumb ass,” she rolls her eyes and looks like she thinks she's the only one in the world who has a lick of common sense.

Standing, Jensen can't help but laugh. “Right.” 

He wanders into the kitchen and helps himself to a soda from the refrigerator. As much as he would love for his friends to hang out and keep him company, maybe lament even longer about the “one that got away,” he really does need to do some damage control on the site and figure out what he's going to do with his new-found... outedness. Outness? Outenticity? Whatever.  


  


So Jensen is out and proud. Well, he's not ashamed that he's gay (though the manner in which he announced it still bothers him a little bit), and that's about as close to proud as he figures he's going to get. By the time his friends leave, he at least feels stable enough to read through the 345 e-mails in his inbox without drinking again or crying himself to sleep.

Most of them are from people he either a.) doesn't recognize, or b.) only knows from his website. He'll get to them eventually, but for now, he only wants to deal with real people whose faces he can picture as he reads.

Truthfully, he should shut the computer down and go visit his parents. They deserve to know what's going on with him, and if they haven't already heard, he figures they will soon. His mother still checks on his site every day even if she insists that she doesn't know anything about the music he discusses.

His mouse hovers over the red 'X' when his eyes catch on a name toward the top of his list. Hand shaking, he clicks and holds his breath.

  


Minutes pass. Literally. He just stares at the screen, wondering if Jared is angry or concerned, or if he thinks this is the funniest fucking thing in the world. He’d be justified in laughing his ass off, for sure. All of the complaining and insisting that Jensen did back then, all of the times he swore that he wasn’t ever going to do this? If anyone has the right to be the first in line to mock him, it’s Jared.

But what if he’s not laughing? What if he really is concerned? What if he spends as much time thinking about Jensen as Jensen spends thinking about him? What if there’s still a chance that maybe this absolute catastrophe can be salvaged? What if it could actually be the reconciliation he never admits he’s been waiting for the last two years?

“Thank you for calling _Slide_ Magazine,” the voice says in his ear before Jensen realizes that he even dialed. What is he thinking? What is he supposed to say? The automated message continues guiding him through the directory, telling him to enter his party’s direct extension at any time, if he knows it. He doesn’t.

Jensen doesn’t even know Jared’s direct office number. No address, no cell number. He only knows the _Slide_ offices because he gives one of their copy editors anonymous sound bites to fill space sometimes. He’s not even sure that Jared knows he does it. 

It’s been two years since he’s said so much as a word to Jared. What in the hell is he doing?

“Editorials,” comes the distracted and rushed answer when he follows the guide to Jared's department. Jesus, the guy’s only twenty-four. How in the fuck are there this many hoops to jump through in order to get to him? “This is Sophia, how can I help you?”

“I just need to talk to Ja,” Jensen stops himself. “Um, can I speak with Jared Padalecki, please?”

She chuckles just a little bit. “I'm afraid Jared's not taking any calls this morning, Mr.,” she pauses.

When Jensen realizes she's waiting for him to say something, he jumps a little in his chair. “Oh, um Ackles. Just, uh, tell him Jensen called, I guess.”

He doesn't know what exactly he was expecting when he made the call in the first place, but whatever it was? It wasn't for Sophia to clear her throat and chuckle in his ear. “Jensen Ackles. Why don't you hold on just a second and let me see if Jared's got a few minutes free.”

For a brief moment, Jensen gets lost in the hold music, nodding his head in time to the beat of old-school Metallica. He gives mainstream media shit sometimes for their inability to recognize the good stuff, but this? This does not suck.

But it is distracting. Which is why he's thrown when a deep voice sounds in his ear without warning. “Jensen?”

Holy fucking shit. “Jared,” he breathes. And yeah, he breathes it. So it comes out all whispery and whimsical and totally fucking pitiful. He knows it. He just can't change it. “How's it goin'?”

“Uh,” Jared stammers and then clears his throat. In his mind's eye, Jensen can see him raking his fingers through his hair and smiling uncomfortably. Jared Padalecki has approximately fourteen different smiles and most of them knock Jensen on his ass. This one, the one he fucking knows is playing on those wide lips now? It's not one of the pretty ones. “You called.”

Brilliant. It's easy to see why the boy graduated Magna Cum Laude, isn't it? “Yeah,” Jensen answers in a similarly brilliant fashion.

“For a reason? Or just to breathe in my ear?” 

He tries to tell himself that Jared doesn't sound irritated or angry. That he's grateful to hear from Jensen. That he's been waiting for two years for this call. He tries and fails miserably. “I got your e-mail.”

“I figured.”

“And I just wanted you to know that I'm fine. Not sick or dying or anything like that.”

There's a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone and Jensen steels himself for the tongue-lashing. They haven't spoken since the day Jared walked out of his apartment. Of course it's going to be awkward. Jensen just didn't think it would be _this_ awkward.

“Dude, I don't know what to say,” Jared admits, and it would break the dam, but Jensen kind of thinks the dam's too thick at this point. It’s been too many years in the making, with too many layers of hurt and defensiveness to break through with a simple admission. 

The thing that sucks the most about it is that it wasn't always like this. There was a time when they were actually happy together. When things were so fucking good, Jensen didn't ever want them to end. When he believed that Jared was going to stick by him forever. There was a time when they were like any other couple in love. Just because nobody else saw them together, it didn't make it less real.

  


“What the fuck is this?”

Jared looked over the back of the couch, eyes zeroing in on the plastic case in Jensen's hand. “Gotta write a review for the next issue,” he shrugged, his attention dragged back to whatever he was watching on television.

“You're kidding,” Jensen huffed, turning the case over in his hand and then back again.

“Why would I kid about that?”

Sometimes, Jensen told Jared to go check out a band and write a piece for an upcoming issue. Sometimes Jared found the bands himself. Everyone knew Jensen had the better ear, but Jared was the one who could make you need to have an album like you needed air in just a few words. All in all, they balanced each other perfectly. 

Occasionally, though, Jensen wondered if Jared had bumped into a wall and bruised his brain. “This is the ugliest fuckin' album cover I've ever seen in my life,” Jensen stated, dropping the disc back onto the desk. 

He was halfway to the kitchen when Jared shouted over his shoulder, “Pull the stick out of your ass there, arrogant.” A lot of people told Jensen that he was kind of a music snob, but nobody made it sound like a compliment quite like Jared could.

“Dude, looks like a bag of Skittles threw up on it,” Jensen nodded as he returned, bypassing the desk to flop onto the couch beside Jared. He offered up a bottle of water and tilted his own soda to his lips.

Jared took a long swallow of his water and Jensen in no way watched the way his Adam's Apple bobbed, or the trickle that escaped over the side of his lip. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned his head and smiled, “Haven't you ever heard you shouldn't judge an album by its cover?”

Jensen rolled his eyes. “Bullshit. A bad cover tells you everything you need to know.”

“And how's that?” Jared was amused, shifting his body until his was fully facing Jensen on the couch, fingers playing with the soft hairs at the base of his boyfriend's neck. 

“Either the band has no taste, in which case, why the fuck would you wanna listen to them anyway? Or,” he stammered when Jared's thumb massaged the place behind his ear, “they didn't choose the cover, meaning they have little to no creative control. In which case, why the fuck would you wanna listen to 'em anyway?”

“OR,” Jared's eyes grew comically wide, “they're piss poor because they haven't made a name for themselves yet and they're doing the best they can with what they've got.”

Swallowing his own drink, Jensen shook his head. “Bullshit. You can wrap a jewel case in a paper sack, write your band name and the title of the record with a Sharpie, be thrifty and still look far cooler than whatever the fuck that shit is,” he nodded over his shoulder for emphasis. 

“Oh, I'm so gonna prove you wrong,” Jared stood from the couch and crossed the room, killing the power on the television and starting the stereo with a couple of remote clicks. “When you admit that this doesn't suck, even if the cover art does, you're so gonna owe me one,” he threatened.

Jensen quirked an eyebrow. “So either I'm right and you suck my dick, or I'm wrong and I suck yours?” Jared shrugged. “Your negotiation skills are for shit, Jay,” he laughed.

Cranking the volume, Jared made his way back across the room, sinking to his knees in front of Jensen on the floor. “Be a decent wager if you weren't such a whore for suckin' my cock, Jen,” he winked.

“How the fuck am I supposed to listen to your shitty band when you're sayin' that, huh?” He ran his fingers through Jared's hair and realized almost instantly how easily he'd been played. There was no way that he could objectively hate a band while Jared was looking at him like that. No way. “Bastard,” he breathed as Jared's hands moved to the fly of his jeans.

“Dude, would it matter if I was sayin' anything? Listen to that riff and tell me it's not fuckin' intense.”

When Jared listened to music, it was a full experience. Because when Jared listened to something he loved, it was like watching everything Jensen felt when he heard something amazing for the first time. His eyes closed and his head bobbed in time with the rhythm. His shoulders rose and fell and he swayed a little bit. His fingers would twitch and sometimes drum the beat. He felt it. From his head to his toes, Jared let the music take him over and it was... it was a fucking thing of beauty.

“I love this record,” Jensen heard himself say and almost kicked his own ass for it when Jared's eyes popped open. But it was true. In that moment, he fucking _loved_ that music. And it didn't matter if this band had crappy cover art and sounded like a poor man's version of Smashing Pumpkins. All that mattered was what it did to Jared; how it flowed through him, made him come alive.

“I knew it,” Jared captured his bottom lip between his teeth and pulled on Jensen's wrist until they tumbled to the floor together, groaning when their knees knocked into each other, and then laughing until Jared was half-covering him with that larger-than-life body of his. “I love you,” he said, so sincere that it radiated from every part of him just like the music had.

Jensen started to roll his eyes and huff. He was about to make a crack about Jared being a giant girl, but instead, he tangled his fingers in the back of Jared's hair and pulled his face close. “Love you, Jay,” he breathed before sealing their lips together and letting the music and the emotion flood both of them.

  


“I'm sorry, Jay,” Jensen finally says. For so many things. Too many to name.

Jared snorts on the other end of the phone. “For what? Breaking my heart a million years ago? Don't worry about it, Jensen,” his voice is cool, like steel in the winter. “I got over that shit forever ago.”

“Maybe I didn't.”

“No,” Jared's tone is firm, authoritative. Insistent. “Don't... Just... You don't get to do this now, man. You don't get to call me up after you accidentally stumble drunk out of the closet and pretend like it's going to fix anything, okay? You just... you can't do that.”

He wants to admit the defeat and tell Jared that he's sorry for bothering him, but Jensen can't let it go. Because a million years ago, he let Jared walk away and he doesn't want to do it again. He didn't have the balls to hold on back then. Maybe he does now.

“And by the way,” Jared breaks into his thoughts, “if you're going to blog about your erotic fantasies from now on, could you maybe leave my sexual preferences out of it?”

“I didn't even mention your name,” Jensen defends quickly, head spinning at the speed and direction at which his thoughts are whipping around in his head. “And it's not like the whole world doesn't know you're gay anyway.”

“People who know me kind of figured out who you were talkin' about,” Jared fights back. “And not a damn one of them needed to know how much I love givin' a rim job.” After a beat, he adds, “Especially my boyfriend. So thanks for that.”

The word punches him so hard in the gut that Jensen doesn't really fucking care what the hell Jared feels at the moment. “Seems to me he should already know that,” he snarks.

“Except that we're not really,” Jared stops himself short. “Ya know what, my relationship with Tim, and pretty much every-fucking-body else, is none of your business, Jensen. Not anymore.” Jensen doesn't get to say anything else because he follows up with, “Look, I have work to do. So, I don’t know. Good luck with the whole coming out thing or whatever.”

The line clicks dead and Jensen can only stare, his heart pounding against his ribcage. Jared's all grown up, with a real job and a new boyfriend and a life that has nothing to do with Jensen at all. Also, he's kind of a douche.

All of the memories of the past, the re-written history and the things that he wants to believe they can have again? They're like figments of his imagination, and if he's going to stand a chance of getting through the mess he's brought on himself, of being happy like he used to be? He's going to have to own the fact that he let it go, stop looking back, and just move the fuck on.  


  


When his mother said he was stretching himself too thin, Jensen laughed her off. When his faculty adviser said he was going to burn himself out, Jensen assured him that everything was cool. When Jared said he was going to turn himself prematurely gray, Jensen flipped him off and went right back to working on a fourteen-page paper while listening to the new Bright Eyes album and formulating a review in his head.

He'd always been a multi-tasker, so there was no reason he should be feeling so tired and mentally drained with only three weeks of school left. But as he let himself through the front door of Jimmy's, his favorite bar just a few blocks off campus, Jensen could feel his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of too many deadlines. He had finals to study for, and articles to write, but Jared somehow convinced him that he needed to take a break.

Jared waved him over from his table near the back of the bar and nearly every other obligation fogging his brain disappeared. They had been covertly dating for about three months, and with the semester winding down, they'd been afforded little time together in weeks. It had been awhile since he felt the nagging urge to kiss a guy in public, but Jared's dimpled cheeks and brilliant smile were almost too damn enticing.

Instead of folding to the temptation, he dropped into the open seat and accepted the beer that their waitress, Emily, was delivering. He wanted to ask how she knew exactly what he needed, but he'd been stopping at Jimmy's since he was too young to be relaxing with a beer after a hard day, so he figured the answer was pretty obvious.

“Rough day?” Tom asked, smirk playing on his lips as he tipped his beer for a long pull.

Jensen felt Jared's foot graze his under the table and stuttered for words. “Could've been worse,” he shrugged, catching the look Jared was shooting him from the corner of his eye. 

“Hey,” Jared's eyebrows shot up, like they always did when he got really excited about whatever just popped into his head. “Band of Horses is playin' The Empty Bottle. Saturday night.”

Jared had been drooling over the Seattle-based band for almost a year, and even though Jensen had too much on his plate to contemplate going out on any night of the week, he couldn't say 'no' to a good show in his favorite club. Especially if it also meant he got to spend some time with Jared. 

“Band of Horses, huh?” 

Jensen turns his attention to the guy sitting directly to Jared's left. “Misha.” It probably wasn't the most polite greeting he'd ever given, but the guy bugged him. He was staring at the peeled label of his bottle like he had something better to do than listen to their conversation or something.

“Carissa's Wierd was better,” Misha inserted, as though he didn't care that Jensen was hating him from just a few feet away.

“If you're into chamber rock,” Jensen snorted, his opinion of the guy falling by the second. He couldn't really be sure why, though he figured it could have something to do with the way Misha kept watching Jared out of the corner of his eye. Just because everyone didn't know Jared was spoken for didn't mean that he was any less off-limits.

“Come on. Their sound isn't that different now,” Jared threw his two-cents into the mix, eyes rolling like both Jensen and Misha were being ridiculous.

Misha cleared his throat and dropped the paper in his hands to the table. “It's the absence of the female voice that ruins the fullness of the sound for me.”

Before Jensen could tell Misha where to stuff the fullness of _his_ sound, Mike slapped a hand against the table. “If we're gonna have to sit through another live music review, I'm gonna need shots!”

Jared asked Tom some question about his journalism class, killed the entire argument, and Jensen found himself easing back into his chair and the feeling of Jared's foot against his ankle. Nothing else seemed so important when Jared was touching him, even under cover of a pitted and scarred bar table.

  


He was supposed to be at the Plain White T's show over at the school and Jensen really had every intention of showing up when he made the plans. He’d secured backstage passes for the guys and everything. This guy, Ian, that he met at an in-store on Wednesday, was more than happy to accept his invitation to hang with the local band.

But then he got a text that changed everything, and Jensen can't say that he minds so much. He's been on five dates, with as many guys, in as many weekends, since coming out. Still, there's something about introducing one of them to his friends that sets him a little on edge. It's one thing for them to know that he's gay, but actually letting them see it feels bigger. Makes it more real. 

Of course, it's been real for years, but public perception is still reality as far as he's concerned so it seems like a big step. Even if they keep assuring him that it's not.

“You sure you wanna go, man?” 

If he's honest, this has been the best date he's been on in the last month. Ian is crazy hot, interesting and funny. He could have just driven to the bar to meet up with the guys, but bringing the car back to the house and walking means that he has to bring Ian back before the night ends. Maybe he's ready for things to head in the direction of his bedroom. 

With a hesitant sigh, Jensen gives a half-nod and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Dude, I ditched the show. I better show my face.” 

There has always been something somewhat therapeutic about Jimmy's for Jensen. When his older brother, Josh, was washing dishes here back in the day, he would sneak Jensen in through the kitchen. Jensen carried the tradition on when he worked here, letting Jared in while the kid was still in high school. Once they were both old enough to drink out front, it was always the go-to place to hang with the guys. 

To this day, if he's particularly stressed or over-worked, he only has to text Tom, Mike, Chris, and Danneel with the name of the bar and they meet for a couple of hours. All's good after that.

Jensen can practically feel the nostalgia as he throws the front door open, but he stops short when he looks to the table in the back. Well, not so much at the table, but at the way Jared is waving him over like he never left town, smiling all free and easy. 

Of course, he lowers his arm almost immediately, like he can't believe he just did that. His smile fades, and Jensen would worry except Ian knocks into his back and jolts him into laughing. 

“You gonna pussy out on me now?” His date's tone is jovial, but the underlying tone of concern is clear.

Glancing over his shoulder, Jensen just shakes his head and reaches for Ian's hand. “Come on,” he says, though he doesn't bother hanging on. Ian is a grown-ass man. He can find his way to the table without Jensen dragging him. 

He's not entirely sure that he's collected himself fully by the time he reaches the table, but Jensen is determined not to let Jared see just how affected he is by this unexpected turn of events. 

Tom stands, offers him a hand and a half-hug, and then the rest of the table follows suit. Even Misha, who's not nearly as obnoxious these days as he was back when Jensen was paranoid that he was trying to steal Jared away. Of course, that could be because Misha's not gay, or because Jared's not Jensen's anymore. Either way, it's made a friendship a little easier.

“Y'all didn't tell me Jared was gonna be here,” he smiles. It feels fake stretched across his lips, but maybe no one will notice. He pulls the chair beside him out and tears his eyes away from his ex to offer a seat to his date. There's no reason to ruin the great night he's had so far just because Jared showed up, after all.

He just needs a shot to relax his shoulders and everything will be fine. That's what he tells himself as he motions for the waitress and pulls his Zippo from his pocket. 

It's probably a little weird that he's so attached to the damn thing, but it's become a security blanket of sorts. The drummer from Rise Against gave it to him as a 'thank you' for reccing the band in one of his early magazines, and then they went on to sign a deal with Geffen Records. Jensen isn't so arrogant as to believe his write-up is the reason for their success, but the lighter always reminds him that he's good at what he does. When he needs a shot of confidence, just rubbing his thumb over flaming skull imprint seems to do the trick.

Catching Jared's eye across the table, Jensen thinks maybe it's going to take more than a Zippo to get him through this night. 

“They didn't know I was comin' home,” Jared assures him, eyes fixed on the way Ian rests his arm over the back of Jensen's chair for a second. Blinking, he moves his attention back to Jensen and smiles. “Last-minute assignment.”

His smile as slow and easy, eyes drifting in the way they only do when he's a couple beers deep into a conversation. Jared's nowhere near drunk, but he's in that blissfully buzzed place that Jensen needs to be in. As soon as possible, preferably.

“This guy,” he points the Zippo in Jared's direction and then looks over to Ian, “is the best damn writer you'll ever read.” His date nods cordially, but Jensen can tell that Ian could give a fuck less about Jared at the moment. Jensen wishes he felt the same way.

The waitress brings the next round and Jensen slams back his shot before reaching for his beer. It's probably less-than-subtle, his desperate need for liquid courage, but he doesn't care. This night is going to get way too fucking awkward if he doesn't loosen up a little.

Before Jensen can get lost any further in his own head, Tom smacks his shoulder and asks, “Where the fuck were you, Ackles?”

“Dude, we were on our way there, I swear,” he insists, smiling over at Ian for corroboration of his story. Ian smiles around the lip of his beer bottle and Jensen has a hard time remembering what he was saying. He's really very attractive.

“So let me guess,” Mike laughs, shaking his head as he tips his bottle. “You got a personal invite somewhere else?”

Jensen rolls his eyes. He's not above using his professional connections to impress someone. He's kind of against being called out for it at the table, though. “Automatic Laserbeams did a renegade show at The Empty Bottle,” he shrugs, like it's nothing. Ian smiles and touches his back between his shoulder blades, and Jensen relaxes back into the touch a little bit. “Adam wanted me to be there.”

Jensen's not a huge fan of the band, but their drummer, Adam, has great rhythm off-stage, so Jensen doesn't mind hanging out with them when he gets a chance. The fact that Ian dug them was a bonus. 

Misha rolls his eyes and Tom covers a laugh with a cough into his hand. But it's Jared who points his question at Ian and asks, “You a big Automatic Laserbeams fan?”

Rolling his shoulders, Ian smirks and waits for Jensen to turn and meet his eye. “I'm a fan of the guy who got me backstage to meet 'em,” he answers, his tone dripping with the intention of prodding Jared.

It's not like Jared has room to complain. Jensen used to pull the same shit with him back when they were together and he fell for it every time. Even when he knew exactly what Jensen was doing. 

“So, how was the show?” Jensen asks, squaring his shoulders and leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. Ian's hand is heavy on his back, and while it's kind of nice to have the contact, he's not a big fan of public displays. Five weeks out of the closet is not enough to overcome twenty-six years in it. Especially with the ex-love of his life sitting a few feet away.

Maybe the alcohol is getting to him, or maybe Jared takes Jensen's shying away from Ian's affection as encouragement, but he launches into an impromptu review of the show while Tom and Mike throw their own opinions in. Discussing music has always managed to relax him even more than the beer he keeps rolling between his hands. 

Eventually, conversation drifts from shows they've all seen since they were together last. Even though Tom and Misha stayed in Chicago after graduation, they don't have a chance to get together as much as Mike and Jensen do. Catching up with everyone is nice, and listening to Jared compare his roommates back in Brooklyn to the two douches that used to live next door to Jensen sends the conversation down a nostalgic path that Jensen wasn't expecting to enjoy this much.

“Dude,” Jensen exclaims after nearly an hour of reminiscing. Nodding toward the back corner, he points his bottle in Jared's direction. “You. Me. Pinball death match. Come on.” He pointedly ignores the smug half-grin he shoots at Ian. “D'you mind?” he asks his date, because he's not a total douche.

Ian just shakes his head and plasters on a smile that Jensen knows is fake, even though he barely knows the guy. “I'll bring ya a beer if ya take too long,” he winks.

Suddenly, it feels like he's trying too hard. An hour ago, Jensen couldn't find a flaw with the guy, couldn't wait to get him home, and now everything seems wrong. His eyes are too blue. His hair flops too far into his eyes. He's too hands-on. 

He's not Jared.

Shrugging that thought away, he leads the way between tables and takes his place at the side of the machine. Jared goes first. Always. And chances are, he'll beat Jensen handily. But Jensen will valiantly fight back with trash talk and snark. That's really his only defense.

They play three games before Mike stops by to announce that he's heading out. Jensen watches Jared half-hug him and then promise to keep in touch with Tom and Misha as well, even though they all know it's nearly impossible and nobody ever does that like they say they will.

And then they're alone, nothing between them but stilted silence and a pinball machine that's older than both of them put together. What he wouldn't give to think like an actual writer at the moment, to find the right words to ease the tension.

“Dude,” Jared chuckles to himself and shakes his head. “Your date's MIA.”

Glancing over, Jensen's stomach sinks. Ian was a good guy and thirty minutes with Jared completely erased him from Jensen's mind. Great. Now he's _that_ guy. “Dammit,” he curses himself and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Maybe he can still salvage the evening. 

Jared shakes his head and smiles knowingly. “I’m gonna get outta here, too, man,” he announces. “Got a flight to catch in a few hours.”

When he reaches for his wallet, Jensen grabs his wrist. “Nah, man. I got it.” He doesn’t add the ‘ _it’s the least I can do_ ,’ onto the end of the sentence, but he figures it’s implied if Jared’s nod of concession is anything to go by.

They end up heading out of the bar together, shoulders brushing lightly. It’s awkward – there’s no other way to describe it – but Jensen can’t help thinking that it feels more right than walking over here with Ian did. 

“So.”

That’s all Jared says when they reach the end of the building. His car keys are in his hand, and Jensen knows that he’s supposed to have some witty retort or brilliant parting line. Maybe have an apology or explanation. But when he turns toward Jared, really takes a second to look him over and realize time has done nothing to diminish Jensen’s attraction to the guy, the words get caught in his throat.

He manages a shallow, “Yeah,” while rubbing a hand over the back of his hair, wondering if Jared feels the energy that he does right now. It might be alcohol-induced nostalgia that pulls the tension tighter between them, but Jensen thinks it has more to do with an unspoken understanding that this thing between them is never really going to be over.

Before he can fully process, or consider the plethora of ways it could possibly go wrong, Jared is pushing him back against the side of the building, pressing his body into the length of Jensen’s. His mouth is determined and insistent, his hands firm on the sides of Jensen’s head. Planned or not, Jared is not flying blind here. He knows what he wants, and the way his thigh slides tight between Jensen’s tells him that Jared’s no more afraid to go after it than he was a couple of years ago.

It occurs to him, as he’s nipping at Jared’s bottom lip, that they’re standing on the fucking street. In full view of anyone who happens by, many of whom Jensen knows personally from years spent in this neighborhood. He’s holding on to Jared’s waist, pulling him closer as he moans against his lips and lazily rolls his hips against Jared’s thigh. He’s practically begging for it and they’re nowhere close to the privacy of Jensen’s living room.

It’s been about six weeks since he posted that blog on his site. But today, for the first time, Jensen feels like he’s really out of the closet.

“Your place,” Jared breathes against his lips.

Jensen knows it’s a terrible fucking idea. They aren’t what they were. Jared lives in fucking New York now. He has a boyfriend there, and Jensen doesn't know if this is the kind of thing they do often or if he's an extenuating circumstance. Until tonight, the only words they had spoken to each other in two years were not so much friendly. And then there’s the little matter of Jared walking out on him because Jensen broke his heart. 

This isn’t going to help any of that. There will be consequences and Jensen knows he’s not the only one considering them. Jared follows him all the way home with his hands in his pockets and a look on his face that screams ' _on second thought._ '

At the doorway, he makes a decision. It's not based on who they used to be, together or separately, but on who they are right the fuck now. “Just. Let's have tonight, Jay. We can freak out about it later, okay?” 

It's probably not the smartest choice, or even the best one, but this is Jared. It's been too damn long and there's too much unresolved between them. This isn't the best way to fix the problem, but he may never have the chance again. For better or worse, he wants it now.

Authenticity is a word he's considered ad nauseam in the last few weeks. Transparency. Sincerity. He's done denying who he is and pretending to be something he's not. Seeing Jared only confirmed what he still wants, what he should have never let go in the first place, and he's not willing to take a step backwards in this journey of self-discovery because it will inevitably be weird later.

  


It probably wasn't supposed to happen like this, either.

It's wrong on about a thousand different levels. Going home with Jensen can't possibly make anything better between them, and it certainly won't make his life back in New York any easier. There is nothing about this plan that even lives in the same neighborhood as a good idea, but Jared can't stop his feet from following.

When he agreed to cover the Plain White T's homecoming show at Northwestern, he wasn't expecting to have time for his family, let alone friends he hasn't seen in what feels like an eternity. But Tom, Misha and Mike were there before he could duck out of the way, and once the initial awkwardness was past, he was happy to see them.

If he's honest, he was glad that Jensen wasn't with them. Not exactly thrilled when Mike told him that his ex was on a date with some guy he met earlier this week, but grateful that he didn't have to suffer through an awkward reunion with someone he wasn't even sure he wanted to see.

And now he's standing in Jensen's apartment, one that's not so different than the one they practically shared a few years ago, and Jared can't stop thinking about those nights – back when it felt like they were unstoppable, like the bubble they lived in would never pop.

  


“What would you do if you broke all of your fingers and couldn't write anymore?”

Jensen looked up from his place on the floor, cereal bowl in his left hand, spoon held between his lips with his right. “The fuck kinda question is that?”

With a shrug, Jared pivoted on the couch and stretched his body from one end to the other. “Just wonderin'. If you couldn't write. Not, like, if you couldn't find the words. But if you physically couldn't do it, what would you do?”

“Dictate my articles to you.”

“Okay, but in this scenario, I don't have hands, either.”

“Why not? What happened to your hands?”

“Does it matter?”

Jensen stood and placed his bowl on the coffee table, ignoring the way the sugary milk sloshed dangerously close to the edges, and climbed onto the couch. Settling between Jared's feet, he stretched his legs out and ran his fingers under Jared's pant legs absentmindedly. 

“Did you lose them in some tragic accident? Were you being an idiot and attempting some stupid stunt, like, I don't know, grabbing an egg shell out of the blender while it was running? Or were you being heroic and saving some kid from a wrecked car before it burst into flames or something?”

Jared's eyebrow shot up and he couldn't answer with anything other than a laugh. 

“Ask a stupid question, man,” Jensen shook his head, hands running further up his legs, “you're gonna get a stupid fucking answer.”

Struggling to sit, Jared wrapped his legs around Jensen's thighs and brushed his toes against Jensen's side. “It's not a stupid question, asshole,” was his witty retort. “I wanna know what you would do if the one thing you counted on for income and security was ripped away from you.”

Jensen's head tilted in consideration and he caught his bottom lip between his teeth. “I don't know,” he answered, after a long moment of contemplation. “I guess I could do podcasts?”

“But you'd wanna keep reviewing music?”

“Can't imagine doin' anything else,” he admitted, hands retreating back to Jared's ankles. “Why? What would you do?”

Jared shrugged. He didn't mention the fact that, with only a few months to go until graduation, he was starting to question his path in life. Jensen was so set on his and he'd been so supportive of Jared coming on board at Coda that he couldn't bring himself to mention the offer he had on the table from Slide Magazine in New York. “I don't know, man,” he answered. “Haven't really thought about it that much.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, eyes trained on the television and legs tangled together. “Ya know, if we both lost our hands, I don't think work would be my first concern,” Jensen said suddenly.

Jared smirked, the way Jensen's fingers moved up his leg again less-than-subtle. “I think we could find a way around that,” he assured.

Pulling his hand back, Jensen climbed forward on the couch and covered Jared's body with his own. “Yeah,” he smiled, fingers working the button on Jared's jeans. “Always find a way to make this work.”

He knew Jensen was right. No matter what the future threw at them, or what career decisions Jared made, he had to believe that they would find a way to make this work.

  


Jared manages to get the first three buttons of his shirt undone and then Jensen's on him, helping, breathing against his neck. His fingers make quick work of Jared's shirt and then start on his belt, the pair of them managing to get his long legs tangled as Jared stumbles and falls onto the bed with a grunt. They writhe against each other, rutting and growling and kissing until Jared finds himself face down on the mattress with the point of Jensen's tongue dragging the length of his spine.

He knows what's supposed to happen next and he knows that he's supposed to just relax and have a good time with it. But if Jared stands a chance of only mildly freaking out in the morning, he has to get the upper hand. He has to control this situation before he lets it go way too far.

When Jensen crawls off the bed and squeezes at the globes of Jared's ass, he takes the chance to lift a hip and roll himself back over. Not without nearly kicking Jensen in the head, but he manages, nonetheless. Jensen looks up, confusion evident in his eyes –maybe a little bit of hurt – but Jared just paws at his shoulders until he climbs back onto the bed. 

They grind into each other, cocks slipping hard and wet together, and Jared knows that they're not fucking tonight. There's not a chance in hell they're going to make it that far and he can't help thinking that maybe it's for the best. Maybe he can convince himself later, on the plane tomorrow, that this isn't really cheating so long as no one gets fucked.

When he looks down, there are wide eyes staring back up at him, humor and amusement evident as Jensen's lips work up and down his dick. Jesus Christ, it's so fucking perfect inside Jensen's mouth. He almost forgot how good this felt. 

Fingers gripping at the back of Jensen's short hair, Jared tries to stop thinking all together. Freak out later. For now, Jensen is sucking every worry and concern straight out through his dick and Jared is perfectly content to let him. Like old times. He's allowing himself one night to think about how it used to be – to live in the “then” instead of the “now” – and nothing feels more like used-to-be than this right here.

Jensen's sucking his cock like he's starving for it and Jared's holding loose to the back of his neck, losing his mind. The overhead light catches the freckles across his nose and cheeks, and his contented moaning and sighing echoes through the otherwise silent room. It's like Jared's twenty-one again and they're trying to hurry before Mike or Chris comes home.

When Jensen pulls back, Jared doesn't have time to ask questions because he’s got his arms full again and they're rolling the length of the bed, tangled limbs and delicious friction, grunting and panting and thrusting like both of their lives depend on it. And then Jensen is coming against Jared's stomach and saying the most filthy things against his ear, and Jared can't really be sure, but he thinks he maybe shouts something his Catholic grandmother would consider blasphemous as his orgasm crashes over him.

And then comes the awkwardness. It descends heavy, thick, like the sound of their ragged breathing and the smell of sweat and sex in the air. They're naked together, and even if everything tonight felt like old times, this doesn't. There's no comfortable silence. There's no murmured 'I love you' before sleep takes them both. There's just naked skin, rumpled sheets, and a shitload of regret.

Dammit. Jared knew better. Twenty minutes ago, he knew better. What the fuck was he thinking? This is not some random hook up. This is not some one-time thing that he can lock away in a closet. This is Jensen. The love of his fucking life. And no matter how many times he tells himself that he can separate sex from emotion? He can't. Not this time. Not with this guy.

He's out of the bed and fumbling for his clothes before Jensen can even pull himself upright on the bed. By the time he wrestles his shirt over his shoulders, Jensen is reclining against a pillow, flicking that goddamn Zippo lighter against the end of a cigarette. “Good to see you again, Jay,” he says, the words spoken around the cigarette just before the sharp intake of his breath.

Jared nods and tells himself that the waft of Jensen's menthol isn't just as familiar as everything else in this room right now. “Yeah.” He stomps his foot into his sneaker and doesn't bother looking up as he runs his fingers through his hair. “I better get goin'.”

Jensen just nods. “You got a flight to catch.” 

And Jared can't tell if he's being sincere or sarcastic, but either way, he's right. “Alright, well…” He hates, more than anything, that he doesn't know what to say now. That he doesn't know how to end this night. “I'll see ya 'round.”

The wave is clumsy and he barely hears Jensen's, “Later,” as he staggers out the door. In the living room, he stops, breathing deeply and taking a second to look around. The room's not big, and it's not what some people would call inviting, but it feels so much like home that Jared's heart hammers against his chest.

  


En route to the bathroom, Jared tripped three times and crushed one CD case. Navigating Jensen's living room in the dark required a schematic and careful planning, neither of which Jared considered while hung over and half-asleep.

Everything about the room was designed to make work easier – the desk, couch, and chair against the wall, the coffee table shoved up against the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the floor free for research and whatever else Jensen deemed necessary to spread around in cluttered piles - but it certainly didn't make for the most comfortable living conditions. 

By the time he stumbled back to bed, Jared's big toe was throbbing and he wanted to strangle Jensen with a pillow. It was an exaggerated reaction, sure, but it was five in the morning and Jared nearly killed himself tripping over a power chord on the return trip from the bathroom. He felt justified.

“Could you make a little more noise there next time, Sasquatch?” Jensen's muffled voice sounded at his side.

Jared pulled the covers up to his waist and shifted onto his side. “Maybe. If you make your house a little less user-friendly.”

“Been the same forever. Get used to it,” Jensen grumbled.

“Fuck off,” was the only rejoinder Jared could come up with as he drifted off toward sleep.

There was a huff at his back, before Jensen responded with, “You love me.”

“Won't if your furniture tries to kill me again.” Though, even as he said the words, Jared figured it probably wasn't true.

  


He shouldn't have come here – to Chicago, Jimmy’s, or this house. He should have just stayed in New York, where he wouldn't be thinking about Jensen and feeling everything that he shoved so far down back then. He wouldn't be resenting the fact that he's feeling it all again. None of this would have happened if he had just stayed home this weekend and let Chad handle the Plain White T's show. Fucking dammit.

He throws the front door open and then slams it shut, stalking back across the living room and catching Jensen off-guard when he appears in the bedroom door frame. “You are the same pathetic asshole you were on the day we broke up,” he says, the anger boiling in his gut when Jensen schools his surprised features into that cool, unaffected mask he's been wearing since the day they met. “You lure me in with your apologetic phone call and your lame-ass one-liners at the bar, and then bring me back here and fuck my head all up with that bullshit about not freaking out until later. And then you let me walk out the motherfucking door again? Just like that? You are so fucking damaged, it's infuriating!”

Unlike that day that Jared will never forget, though, Jensen doesn't lean back and shrug his shoulders. He doesn't keep his mouth shut. There is fire in his eyes, a passionate response that Jared's only ever really seen him reserve for music that he either loves or hates. 

“You're the one who bolted out of bed like your ass was on fire, man. You're the one who has a plane to catch. A boyfriend to get back to. What the fuck do you want me to do? You told me, in no uncertain terms, that I didn't stand a fucking chance of getting you back. Excuse me for trying to salvage my pride and let you walk away from this like it didn't have to mean anything.”

“It's always gonna mean something with us!” Jared roars back. And it's one of those moments like being in a bar, telling a really inappropriate joke with your impossibly drunk friends – that moment when the music stops just as you're telling the filthy punchline a little too loudly. 

Jensen looks like he's been punched, his face twisting with the truth of Jared's statement. He stamps the butt of his cigarette into the glass tray on the table and rolls off of the bed to pull his underwear on before speaking again. “But it can't, right?” 

He looks to Jared for confirmation, but Jared can't say anything when Jensen's looking at him like that – eyes full of hope, expression wide open, waiting for something Jared just can't give him. Not when there's so much hurt, so many unresolved feelings of resentment and anger he's pushed down for so long that he doesn't even know how to deal with them anymore. He loves Jensen, thinks he probably always will, but being in love with Jensen is too painful a concept to even consider now. 

“Look man, I know you think I fucked up back then. I know you think I should have told you to stay and that I should have gotten over whatever my own issues were. Or that I should have loved you more, or expressed it differently, or whatever.” He shakes his head and Jared feels that hole in his heart, the one that's been there for two years now, cracking open and starting to bleed. “Maybe you're right. Maybe you are, because if I had?” Jensen shakes his head, mask slipping to reveal the sadness and repentance. “We could have,” he stops himself and catches his bottom lip between his teeth. “I don't know what would have happened, Jay. Neither of us do. 

“But I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be missing you like this. Like there's this part of me that's just. I don't know, man. Like it's just gone.” He runs his hand over the back of his head and stares hard at the floor before looking back up. “I can get off. I can find a guy and fuck him.” Jared feels his eyes narrow, but tells himself it doesn't mean anything. “What I can't do is replace my best fucking friend. That's what I miss. The guy I can call or e-mail or text about anything, or nothing. The guy that fucking knew me like nobody else ever has.”

It knocks Jared back like a freight train, the weight of Jensen's words. Not to mention the fact that he said so many of them in regards to his own feelings. Somewhere over the course of the last two years, he's forgotten that part. He's chosen to remember only that Jensen shut him out that last day in his apartment, that he refused to talk about what he was thinking or why he was letting Jared go so easily. 

He forgot that Jensen used to talk to him about everything. He used to take so much shit from Mike and Chris for not having anything to say if it wasn't about music, but Jared knew the Jensen that could talk for hours about anything when they were alone. Jared would lay his head in Jensen's lap, let those strong fingers card through his hair, and just listen while Jensen waxed philosophical about everything from the classes he was taking, to the biography he was reading, to the pizza rolls he had for dinner. 

He forgot that Jensen would shut up and listen to Jared talk about finals, politics, or the fruit punch that he could only buy at the convenience store on campus. Somewhere before that day a lifetime ago, he and Jensen used to talk about their parents' expectations, and whatever squabble they were having with their siblings, and how Jensen barely remembered Texas while Jared missed it so much it hurt sometimes.

  


Maps and brochures covered the living room floor and they all stared like one of them might jump up and grab their ankles or something. It was a lot of information and a huge undertaking, but there was a rippling current of excitement palpable in the air.

“Alright, kids,” Chris took a deep breath and shook his head, hand coming down loud and heavy on Jensen's shoulder. “This has gotta be the dumbest fuckin' thing you ever thought up, but it's gonna be awesome.” He drained the beer bottle in his hand and set it on the edge of Jensen's desk before extending a hand to his friend. “Call ya later.”

Jared just waved as Chris, Mike and Tom headed out for the night, his brain racing at the very idea Jensen had presented. There wasn't enough time to plan for something like this, and he had no idea where the money was going to come from, but Jensen wanted to try. Who was going to tell him 'no'?

When they were alone, Jared looked up to find Jensen grinning like a madman in the doorway. “This is insane,” Jared laughed, arms crossed over his chest.

To his credit, Jensen didn't disagree. Pushing off the door, he made his way to the opposite side of the mess and let his eyes float over the papers. “It's gonna be epic, man.”

The South by Southwest music festival was in four weeks, but they could stay with Jared's brother in Austin so it wouldn't cost that much. Coachella came next, and Jared was going to have to skip a few days of school if he wanted to tag along with the guys for that one. Lollapalooza, Bonnaroo and Reading were all in the summer so he didn't have to rearrange anything for those. Still. It was a lot.

“Jensen.”

“Man, I know, okay?” Jensen interrupted before Jared could even start to build a case against this ridiculous notion. “But, Jay, you're graduating in a few months, man. And then this thing,” he gestured widely to the entire room, “it all changes. It's not just my ass on the line anymore once you start working for me. It's real life, and it's just,” he shakes his head, eyes pleading with Jared to understand. “What's wrong with reminding ourselves why we love this so goddamn much?”

It was far from the most responsible thing either of them had ever done or could possibly think about doing. But Jensen had a way of reminding Jared of all the things he loved in the world in a few easy sentences. Travel, music, and spending time with Jensen were all high on that list, so why the hell not combine them in an unforgettable summer they could talk about for the rest of their lives.

Nodding his head, Jared looked up and quirked an eyebrow. “Alright. I'm all in, man.”

  


They had plans, not as lovers but as friends. They wanted to see things together, experience them with the one person who just got why it was so important. They were supposed to do everything together. Of all the plans they made, that was the unwavering constant.

Jared realizes now that Jensen is right – he hurts. He's angry and he's got issues to deal with that Jensen can't help him through, but he also has a life that he would love to be able to share with his best friend. 

“Call me, okay?” he suggests with a shrug, hands in his pockets as he turns for the door again.

Jensen nods and this time, he walks Jared to the door. “Take care of yourself out there, kiddo,” he winks when Jared stops just over the threshold. “Phone works both ways, ya know?”

Pushing down the urge to reach out and pull Jensen into a hug, Jared just smiles a little. “Yeah. I'll talk to you later, man,” he promises.

The night is cold around him and Jared stuffs his hands further into his pockets as he heads back to the bar to retrieve his dad's truck. The truth is, he wishes he had stayed to talk to Jensen tonight – just stayed up until sunrise, riffing about whatever pops into their heads. But he's had enough nostalgia for right now and it's better if he takes some time to decompress. 

He'll worry about the logistics of re-establishing a friendship with the love of his life later. That's what Jensen is, and Jared can't deny it anymore. He might not be able to have the same relationship with the guy again, but he knows that Jensen is the one permanent fixture in his life. That's the way it was supposed to be way back when. Maybe this is the way it's supposed to be now.

  


Making a career out of jetting around the country to seeing rock shows probably sounds enticing to some people. Hell, it sounded enticing to Jared a few years ago. That was before he knew that being gone for three days really only gives him more work to do when he gets back to the office. He's been sorting through e-mails, voicemails, and a to-do list that won't stop growing all morning. But there's only so much coffee a guy can drink before his skin starts vibrating and his fingers won't work on the keyboard anymore.

“Dude. Lunch. Now.” 

With a quick glance over his shoulder, Jared shakes his head at Chad and then looks back to the computer screen. His head is starting to hurt, but he can't exactly shut everything down and head home for some Advil. “No time,” he answers.

Chad's a good guy. Well, Chad's alright most of the time. He doesn't exactly seem to understand the concept of decorum, and he needs to learn exactly when to keep it in his pants, but Jared doesn't mind him. He's entertaining and it doesn't hurt that he makes Jared look about a thousand times cooler in comparison when they go out, when they're in a staff meeting and pretty much any other time they show up somewhere at the same time. 

“There's always time for food,” he pats his belly and stretches his arms over his head. For the last twenty minutes, he's been playing with some ridiculous Facebook application in lieu of doing any actual work. Jared's tempted to pawn some of his own work off on the guy, but he knows damn well Chad will just shove it into the pile of other shit he's supposed to be doing and it'll never see the light of day again.

“Turkey and Swiss on nine-grain, no mayo, extra mustard and pickles,” a gravelly voice sounds from the door as Sophia pitches a paper-wrapped sandwich toward Jared's desk. He catches it right before it hits him in the chest and she winks, “Nice hands, Padalecki.”

Before he can respond, Chad lets out a low whistle and Jared just shakes his head. Watching Chad crash and burn used to be entertaining. Now it's just kind of sad. “New jeans, Soph?”

She narrows her eyes and hitches her thumb over her shoulder. “Why don't you go to lunch before I file another sexual harassment complaint, Murray?”

If anyone thought she was kidding, Chad might stick around to be even more inappropriate. Fortunately, he thinks better of it and disappears with a promise to be back before they miss him. Neither Jared nor Sophia bother to respond.

“You ever gonna lighten up on him?” Jared asks, with a shake of his head as he swallows the first bite of his sandwich. 

Sophia shrugs, throws her dark hair over her shoulder and sits in the chair opposite Jared's desk, carrot stick pinched between her fingers like the cigarette she would light right now if she thought she could get away with it. “He had his chance. He blew it. I'm done.”

He doesn't even think before he nods. “No, I get it. I do,” he assures her. Probably more than she knows.

“So, didya see him or what?” When he doesn't answer, Sophia kicks her shoes off and props her bare feet up on the edge of Jared's desk. “Jensen? When you were home? Did you see him?” Jared nods and Sophia's grin nearly splits her face in two. “And?”

“And what?”

“How was it? Awkward? Awesome? Everything you dreamed and more?”

He takes another bite, shrugs his shoulders and smiles over the top of his screen. _He had his chance. He blew it. I'm done._ Sophia's words are too final, but Jared doesn't want to give her the wrong idea. Knowing her, she'll formulate her own wrong idea, with or without his help. It's not her fault that she's a hopeless romantic, but while she talks candidly about the lack of love in her own life, she's a sucker for a good story about other people finding it. 

So instead of saying much, he shrugs and finishes off his sandwich, reaching for the water bottle he's been nursing for the last twenty minutes. “I saw him,” he admits, because he's never been very good at lying. “We talked. Wasn't exactly old times, but we didn't throw punches or anything.” When she winks and grins that flirty little grin of hers, Jared shakes his head and puts a hand up. “It's not like that. Now get outta here. I have thirty-five hundred words to write by two fifteen and I'm sittin' at thirteen.”

Jared loves his co-workers because they know immediately that thirteen hundred words do not magically turn into thirty-five hundred and they leave him alone when necessity dictates it. He wishes he could say the same for pretty much anyone else that he knows here in the city.

Once he's finally starting to gain momentum on his piece about the Plain White T's show, one that will either show up on the website or be edited down to a five hundred word blurb amidst other reviews in another article, most likely, Jared lets his shoulders relax. This is what he does, better than most. When he gets into the rhythm and feels the flow, this is what comes naturally. He's been doing it since middle school and perfecting it since he moved to Chicago back in eleventh grade. This is what Jensen taught him, to block out everything else and just describe how the music feels.

When the article is finished, he sends it off to the copy editor and looks at the next item on his list. Jesus, there's still a lot here. How in the hell is he ever going to get it all done? 

He idly plays with the idea of calling Tim. A midday quickie would take the edge off and make this whole day seem a lot less stressful, he's sure. He has three hours until he has to head over to the VH-1 studios to record a few soundbites for some 'Best Of' show they're putting together, though. Tim is the segment producer and Jared will see him then. No use calling him over now, he figures, so he settles for checking his e-mail instead.

  


Jared watches the video twice, can't help laughing and wishing that he was back in Chicago. Of course, he still has a thousand things to do, but Jensen has always had a twisted sixth sense about when he needs a break.

  


The next time Jared hears from Jensen, it's three days after the e-mail. He's already pissed off about having to interview anyone at fucking Starbucks and he's running late on top of that. It's not a good day, and when he digs into his pocket to retrieve his cell, the woman behind him slams into his back and curses angrily.

“Sorry,” he apologizes automatically, clicking the button on his phone as he resumes his previous speed. “Hello?”

“Why the hell aren't you in your office?” Jensen asks.

Jared shakes his head. It's more than a little bit comforting to know that some things about Jensen will never change. “Because I have a job that sometimes requires I be out of my office?”

“But I have a song you need to listen to.”

“Gonna have to wait, man. I'm on my way to an interview.”

“Who?”

“Jack White.”

There's a slightly impressed huff from the other end of the phone. “Well, alright then. Just,” Jensen stops talking and Jared can hear the wheels of his chair moving across the linoleum floor of his kitchen. He must be working – it's the only time Jensen doesn't bother to get out of his chair for anything, even food breaks. Jared smiles as he yanks the door of the coffee shop open and notes that his interview subject is not yet here. “I sent you a song I want you to listen to when you get a chance. You're gonna love it.”

“How can you be sure?” Jared smiles at the barista and asks for a water. He's had enough coffee at the office already, thanks.

Jensen sighs, all long suffering, like he can't believe Jared would even question him on something like this. “Who knows you, Jay? I mean, you're maybe sellin' out like a bitch now, but I know your taste hasn't changed that much.” Jared rolls his eyes and thanks the girl behind the counter before finding a chair near the back of the shop. “Just trust me, okay?”

  


Jared didn't even know where they were going, and he certainly didn't know why they needed to be there at three o'clock in the morning. He'd been peacefully sleeping – there may have been a naked dream-version of a certain British actor involved – and getting roused by a jabbing poke in the ribs didn't put him in the best mood ever. Especially when Jensen refused to tell him the intended destination.

Bitching about it did no good, so Jared stopped trying about three blocks from Jensen's place. It wasn't until the rounded the side of the old record store a few blocks later that he stopped following and stared at Jensen's back. “You gonna tell me what the fuck now?”

Jensen just turned, hands on his hips. “Surprise isn't a concept you're so familiar with, is it?” 

He disappeared around the corner and was pulling something out of his pocket when Jared finally caught up – against his better judgment, if the police asked questions later. “Dude, we come here practically every day. What could possibly be so important that we have to break and enter in the middle of the night?”

“Would you just trust me?” Jensen's tone was only slightly frustrated, but more amused. Like he knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how much Jared was going to appreciate it. 

In reality, he probably did. Most days, it felt like Jensen knew Jared better than Jared knew himself. Still, it seemed like if that were the case, Jensen should know how much Jared really didn't want to forgo his last couple of years of school to spend time in jail.

With a steady hand, Jensen slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open with his shoulder. A few more seconds, a few keys punched, and he had disabled the security system. “Come on.”

More curious than he wanted to admit, Jared did as he was told and tentatively stepped over the threshold. Jensen moved through the darkened store room and turned on a small table lamp, illuminating an open box there. With a mischievous gleam in his eye, he rubbed his hands together. “Oh Chris, I owe you a big, sloppy kiss on the mouth, my friend.”

That thought alone made Jared shudder. Instead of saying anything, though, he made his way through the room to stand at Jensen's side. “Jensen, what the fuck is going on?”

Chris had been working at the record store for three weeks and Jared was fairly certain that he could have brought just about anything Jensen needed to his apartment or something. He didn't have to loan out his key and make Jensen do the work of stealing it himself. Something was definitely up.

With a dramatic flourish, Jensen turned, the plastic wrapper from a CD case peeking out between the hands clutched to his chest. “I know you love me, man, but try to remember that we're in a semi-public place and run the risk of getting caught at any moment. Blowing me for this is probably not the best idea until we get back home.”

“If by 'blowing you' you mean 'punching you in the throat,' then I will try to restrain myself.”

Jensen just rolled his eyes and thrust the CD into Jared's hand. “Happy anniversary, dickface.”

In his hands was a copy of The Killers' album, _Sam's Town_. Jensen wasn't a particularly huge fan of the band – claimed they'd gotten too commercial after the release of their first mainstream album – but they were easily in Jared's top five. The album was highly-anticipated and not scheduled for release for another three weeks.

“How,” he started to ask and then snapped his mouth shut as he flipped the case around to read the song listing on the back cover. 

“Dude, they get copies of early-release stuff in here all the time – for screening or some shit. I didn't know what to get you and I might have mentioned something about wishing that,” he nodded toward Jared's hands, “would come out early. Decision woulda been easier, for sure.” When Jared meets his eye, Jensen's face is lit nearly as brightly as the lamp on the table by the sheer force of his smile. “Chris texted me to say that they had the advanced copy if I wanted to grab it for you.”

His brain was tripping between elation and disbelief when the sound of a passing car on the street reminded him of exactly what they were doing. “And you couldn't just have Chris bring it to you? Why the hell are we here, Jensen?”

With the grin of a little boy heading for trouble, Jensen shrugged his shoulders. “Call it part of the present. Something special to make you think of me every time you listen.”

“Breaking and entering is your idea of something special?”

He shrugged and flicked the light back out. Jared felt the fingers on his hips, the breath against his cheek, before he heard the words against his ear, “You won't forget it.”

By the time they were laying, pressed thigh-to-thigh on Jensen's bed again, Jared had to admit that he was right. The album might not have been as great as he had hoped, but every time he listened to it, he would remember this moment and the way Jensen always seemed to know exactly how to spin his head around.

  


Jared always trusted Jensen. Without question. And maybe that's part of the reason it hurt so badly when everything ended. He's pretty sure the break down of that trust is something he'll never fully get over. “I'll check it out,” he promises.

“Call me back when you do, okay?” Jensen doesn't add the part where he wants to talk about what Jared loved and hated about the song, or the part where he tells Jared why he's wrong, or the part where they listen to it together just to prove their respective points. 

“For sure.” From his seat, Jared can see the front door opening and a few guys ambling lazily into the coffee shop. “I gotta go, Jensen. I'll call you later tonight.”

“Yeah. Tell Jack I said 'hey.'”

Jared will because Jensen knows Jack White. Because he knew him back when The White Stripes were an underground band in Detroit and Jensen couldn't stop talking about them. He was the first one, at the ripe old age of twenty, to score a one-on-one interview with them after they signed their first major-label deal. Jensen accuses Jared of being a sell out, but he has connections Jared would consider sacrificing a virgin to obtain. He knows who is going to make it in this business and he catches them on the ground floor. 

Telling Jared to pass on a greeting isn't at all about Jensen catching up with an old acquaintance, though. Gratefully, Jared recognizes it for exactly what it is: Jensen conveying his stamp of approval to the musician Jared is about to interview. It's as good as Jensen standing here himself, telling Jack White that Jared is okay, that he should feel comfortable being candid and open, and trust that Jared will make him sound like even more of a bad-ass than he actually is. 

This is Jensen being a friend.

  


By the time Jared pushes through the front door of the Brooklyn loft he shares with two other guys he found on craigslist a couple of years back, it's after nine o'clock. The interview went well, and he managed to see Tim for a nice dinner, so the day that started awful ended up not being so bad after all.

“You're right,” he says when Jensen answers the phone. He grabs an apple from the counter and waves at one of his roommates, Steve, as he heads out of the door, guitar case in hand. 

“Always,” Jensen answers easily. “What am I right about this time?”

“Alaska and Me? Love the song you sent me.” He'd listened to Silver Screens and Pseudo Scenes four times and couldn't deny that Jensen's ear was as finely tuned as ever.

He crosses the kitchen and pushes his bedroom door open, dropping his laptop bag next to the small desk against the wall. It's good to be home. After they ate, Tim wanted him to come to his place and stay the night on the Upper West Side, but Jared made some excuse about needing to sleep in his own bed. Really, he just needed to get home and call Jensen back like he promised earlier this afternoon, but he couldn't very well tell Tim that. As far as excuses for blowing off sex go, it's not exactly acceptable.

“I fucking knew you'd love it!” 

Jensen sounds so happy about it that Jared can't help smiling. “Whole album's pretty good, man.” 

After a beat, Jensen asks, “How'd the interview go?”

“It was good. You should call him, by the way.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He said something about playin' your neck of the woods with The Dead Weather in a couple months.”

Jared eases the balcony door open and lets the New York City night wash over him. Sometimes he misses Chicago, more often he misses San Antonio, but there are some nights when he can't imagine himself living anywhere other than right here. He kind of loves New York more than he ever thought he would.

Lowering himself into one of the plastic deck chairs, he props his feet up on the railing and leans his head back against the wall. “Dude, can I just tell you that authentic Italian is possibly the most perfect foodgasm in all of creation.” Jensen mumbles something and Jared doesn't bother asking him to repeat it. “I could sleep for a week, I think.”

“Spaghetti Bolognese?” 

“Is there anything else?” Jared licks his lips, the flavor no longer lingering there, and imagines the way it exploded against his taste buds just about an hour ago. “There's this place over in the West Village. It's like Heaven on Earth.”

“Kinda cliché, Jay,” Jensen chides, but Jared can hear his smile through the line.

He doesn't think about the words before they roll over his lips. “Clichés are such for a reason, Jen.”

“Asshole,” Jensen fires back, and Jared doesn't even feel bad for quoting one of Jensen's favorite phrases.

They fall into an easy rhythm, teasing each other and chatting about whatever while Jared closes his eyes and taps his foot against the railing. It feels good, talking to Jensen like this. Makes him think that maybe they don't have to be all complicated and twisted, reminds him that they know how to weather this sort of bump in the proverbial road.

  


Standing outside Jensen's front door, Jared balled his fists against his thighs and tried to find the confidence he'd had yesterday. Kissing Jensen wasn't something he had planned – trading handjobs had definitely not been on the agenda – but Jared had always been the kind of kid who went after what he wanted when he saw an opportunity. Last night, it seemed like the door was open and all he had to do was shoulder his way through.

Jensen hadn't answered his phone or responded to a single text message in nearly twenty-four hours, though, and Jared's bravado was wavering. He knew that there was something between them but he was fairly convinced that he had fucked it all up, along with their friendship, with his inability to keep his hands to himself last night.

After drawing two more shaky breaths, he raised his hand and knocked twice, sharp, on the door. Fifteen seconds – ticked off in his head at a painstaking rate – nearly killed every shred of hope Jared had left. But when Jensen swung the door open and raised an eyebrow, he couldn't help smiling in spite of himself. “Hey,” he waved, hand feeling too big and floppy as he waved.

“There a reason you're knockin' on my door?” Jensen hung one arm over the top of the door, the other resting loose against his hip. His tongue ran across his bottom lip, then his lip rolled between his teeth, and then Jared nearly lost his balance. 

“Didn't know if you were home,” he stuttered, quiet and pitiful. Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, he studied the toe of his shoe because the thought of looking at Jensen was just a little more than he could fathom at the moment. Jared had never really cared what many people thought of him, but Jensen's opinion sat high on the list. Being rejected now was going to hurt more than he wanted to admit.

Letting go of the door, Jensen squared his stance and crossed his arms over his chest. “You still have a key, right?” Jared just nodded and looked up. Yesterday, he let himself in. Today, he couldn't bring himself to cross the threshold. “Dude, what the fuck is your problem?”

He couldn't answer Jensen's question because he didn't want to admit how fucking cowardly he felt. “Man, I don't know. You didn't call me back all day. This is fucking weird, okay?” It shouldn't have been, but it was, and Jared was never very good at sugar-coating his emotions. Jensen said that's what made him a great writer, but sometimes Jared wished he had one of those masks Jensen always seemed to carry.

With a roll of his eyes, Jensen lunged forward and grabbed the sleeve of Jared's tee shirt, taking advantage of his surprise to pull him into the apartment. Slamming the door, he pushed Jared up against it and tangled his hands in his shirt. “Nothing changes, man,” he promised, pressing his lips to Jared's, too quick to even count as anything more than a peck. “Stop bein' a damn drama queen.”

“Oh, yeah, nothing's changed at all,” Jared tucked his finger into the waistband of Jensen's jeans and pulled him back for another kiss. “This is totally normal for us.”

Shrugging, Jensen pulled away and headed toward his desk. “It is now,” he answered, all free and easy like he wasn't the one freaking out on the couch last night. He dropped into the chair at his desk and nodded toward the couch. “Remote's yours till I finish this shit.”

There were still doubts and Jared knew he could easily second-guess himself all night if he allowed his mind to wander. But then Jensen looked at him, laughed, and Jared had a hard time thinking about anything else in the world.

  


At midnight, Jared groans and stands from the chair, his ass sore from sitting. That's nothing compared to the dull disappointment that thuds in his chest over the thought of hanging up with Jensen, though. If he didn't have an actual job like a responsible adult, he would just stay up all night like they used to. They're not kids anymore. He has to keep reminding himself that they're not who they used to be.

“Alright, man, I hate to do this to ya, but I gotta get some sleep.”

Jensen agrees, doesn't so much as put up a fight, and Jared would be offended but he's too grateful at the moment. “I'll talk to ya later, man,” Jensen offers before disconnecting the call.

If Jared stumbles to bed and falls asleep with a contented smile on his face, it's just because he's happy to have his best friend back in his life again.

  


“How was lunch?”

“It was Gino's. How do you think it was?”

Mmm. Gino's deep dish pizza sounds so damn good right now, Jared's mouth almost starts to water. “How's Mac?”

There's a huff, almost a snort, on Jensen's end of the phone and Jared can just see his eyes rolling. “Pain in the ass as always.” Jared can hear papers shuffling and he wants to ask what Jensen is doing, but he doesn't. “Apparently, she's decided that I would be a fascinating case study for her thesis.”

“You?” He doesn't mean to laugh. It just kind of comes out.

“I know, right?”

Jared hears the snick of a lighter and then nothing. Jensen doesn't say anything and there are no papers rustling anymore. On the plus side, there's nothing to indicate that he lit the pile on fire or anything, so he probably shouldn't worry. On the other hand, he can see Jensen so clearly in his head that he knows exactly what the guy is doing.

“Stop burning a hole in your pants,” he scolds.

“Not,” Jensen denies, but then he follows up with, “Dude, it only burns the lighter fluid. Not the fabric.”

  


“Would you relax? He's not gonna set his leg on fire.”

Jared looked over at Brandon, the drummer from Rise Against, unconvinced. “He's drunk off his ass and playing with fucking fire, dumb ass. There was no way this could end well.” He didn't bother adding just how much he would not like to spend the night in the ER with Jensen and his flaming left leg.

“It's not even dangerous,” Joe, the bass player, assured him from behind, a heavy hand on his shoulder. Jared wasn't exactly sure if it was supposed to comfort him, or keep him in his place. 

Carefully – as carefully as a dude who's so drunk he can't hold his own head up can manage – the group's lead singer, Tim, dribbled a line of the lighter fluid from a large bottle labeled 'Zippo,' onto Jensen's thigh. Jared risked a glance at his face to find Jensen grinning like an idiot with a bottle of beer in one hand and the other buried in his own hair. He didn't have to ask to know that Jensen was having the time of his life. Of course, the heavy lids of his eyes said that he wouldn't so much remember this in the morning, either.

Logically, Jared knew that only the fluid would burn, but everyone else seemed so goddamn entertained by the whole thing, so hungry to try it until they'd burned the whole bottle, that he couldn't help worrying it might get out of hand. It wouldn't be unheard of backstage at a rock show, after all.

It was weird, but that's when he kind of knew that his feelings for Jensen weren't just platonic. Because he didn't want to spend the whole night in the ER with Jensen's charred leg, but he would. If Jensen caught on fire and had to be rushed to the hospital, Jared would have to go with him. There was nowhere else that he could be, without freaking out and worrying and willing the phone to ring with constant updates. He would need to be there. He always felt like he needed to be where Jensen was.

“Jay, man, c'mon,” Jensen's voice interrupted his thoughts, and the smile on his lips when Jared looked up nearly sent him spiraling across the room to suck the stupid right off his face. “You gotta fuckin' try this shit. It's awesome!”

Jared didn't try, but he did force himself to stop worrying so damn much. Besides, it was pretty awesome just to sit back and watch Jensen act like a happy, drunken idiot.

  


“You're an idiot,” Jared rolls his eyes and lets himself out onto the balcony. One of his roommates, Aldis, is hosting a video game tournament in the living room and Jared doesn't really want his conversation with Jensen interrupted by five guys who barely fit in the living room constantly asking him to 'get next.' It's not his fault they can't figure out how to invite an even amount of competitors.

“You're an idiot,” is Jensen's response as Jared settles himself into the chair that has become his 'talk to Jensen' spot over the last three weeks. Every night, he tucks himself into this chair, props his feet up, and lets the hours fly by. And, yes, he's well aware that it probably looks like more than it is. But they're just friends. They used to do this shit all the time before they started sleeping together.

“That's a brilliant comeback there, genius. Take ya a long time to come up with it?”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Not for the first time, Jared wishes that he could pull his foot out of his mouth. It’s an automatic response, honed over five years of Jensen claiming to hate him when the opposite is clearly true. Of course, now it’s painfully so and Jared doesn’t know how to fix the faux pas, or if it’s even going to matter. There are times when talking to Jensen is the best part of his day, and then there are parts that just suck ass.

“So Mac’s working on her Master’s, right? And this is what she lays on me today at lunch: _Media and popular culture's effect on the pre-adolescent and adolescent subconscious as it relates to sexuality self-awareness and candidness within peer groups and family structure, including, but not limited to, communicating placement on the Kinsey scale_.”

“You had to write that down, didn't you?”

“Shut up.”

When Jared laughs sharp and loud from his belly, Jensen joins him. “What the fuck does that even mean?” Jared asks.

“Shit. Fuck if I know.” He lights another cigarette and Jared hears the rush of his breath as he exhales before going on. “You know who Matthew Shepard is, Jay?”

Of course Jared knows who Matthew Shepard is. He’s a gay man who turned on a television in high school. “Yeah.”

“You remember where you were when you heard about him?”

“Not exactly.”

“I was in the living room, watchin’ the news with my parents. I was pretending to do homework and eating Pringles.” Another inhale. Another exhale. “My mom started crying and I remember Mac saying something about how we didn’t even know the kid and why was it such a big deal or whatever.”

“How old were you?” 

“Seventeen. Just started my senior year, man. That was the summer I finally admitted to myself that I was gay. After I spent the entire three months sucking Danny Meyers off in the break room at Food 4 Less, he fucked me at his grandparents’ house while they were visiting his aunt for the weekend. Two months later, I’m in the living room watching my mom cry about this gay kid that got tied to a fence post and pistol-whipped to fuckin’ death. 

“I had this whole speech planned. Before that, I was gonna tell them everything. But my mom,” Jensen stops and Jared can imagine him shaking his head, empty eyes fixed and unfocused on the wall just beyond that. “She kept saying it wasn’t right that people could kill someone’s child like that. Kept talkin’ about how scary it was to let your kids go in the world. About how she prayed that we never ran into people who would do something hateful for such a ridiculous reason.”

“And you couldn’t tell her.” 

“And I… couldn’t tell her.” 

Jared doesn’t know how all of that is going to become a thesis, but he’s more concerned about how he never knew it before now. Seems like something he should have known, something Jensen should have told him. Of course, maybe it means something that he’s telling it now. It feels like it means something.

“Mac’s theory is that I got scared or some shit, that I freaked out about hurting or worrying Mom. Maybe that I was a little scared of getting beat up myself, but that my brain didn’t wanna deal with fear. So I got it in my head that it was just nobody’s business, that I was gonna live a 'don’t ask/don’t tell' life forever. That’s why I was so determined not to come out before.”

“And what do you think?”

There's another long pause, one that means Jensen is thinking his answer out before giving it. “I don't know, man. I guess it's as good an answer as any. Not like I remember thinking all that through or whatever. Just kept kinda passing over tellin' anybody about it.” Another snick and Jensen sucks a drag of yet another cigarette. “Thing is, I'm startin' to realize that I didn't do such a good job of hidin' it, ya know? Like everybody I've told, the people that I actually know, are completely unfazed by it.”

Jared gets it. He ran into the same thing when he came out two years ago. Everyone already knew and they knew that he was with Jensen at the time. Didn't surprise even his parents with the revelation. “Yeah, well, apparently I suck at hiding it when I'm in love,” he says, hitching a breath and hoping that this doesn't kill the conversation immediately.

  


“Jensen and I broke up.”

Jeff's concern was immediate and genuine through the phone. “Dude, that blows. I'm so sorry, man.”

“Wait a minute,” Jared sat up on his bed and raked a hand through his thick hair. “I never even told you I was gay, did I?” He told his parents a week ago, and Megan the day after that. Misha was the first one he called, but he was pretty sure he hadn't mentioned it to his big brother.

The laugh against his ear was all-knowing, in that way that only a big brother could be. “Didn't you?” He could imagine Jeff's face twisting in confusion, like he was trying to remember the exact conversation. “Are you sure you didn't?” 

“Uh, yeah, Jeff. I'm sure I didn't tell anyone until very, very recently,” Jared assured him. It wasn't the kind of thing he accidentally let slip. 

“Huh,” was Jeff's response. “Well, it's not like it's not obvious, the way y'all eye-fuck all the goddamn time. Makes a big brother feel all protective and uncomfortable, Jare-Bear.”

Flopping back on the bed, Jared let out a sigh and rolled his eyes. “Man, fuck you.” And then he remembered that he wasn't going to be able to eye-fuck Jensen in front of anyone anymore. “Dude, I fucking miss the hell out of him. This blows.”

“Losin' your first big love always does, little bro.”

  


“Your brother only saw us together a couple times.”

It's true. Jeff was already in college when Jared's family relocated to Chicago, and he only hung out with Jared and his friends a handful of times when he made the trip up north to visit. “Guess it didn't take much time to figure us out,” he shrugs and takes a swig of the juice he's been playing with since Jensen called.

“Mac says the same thing about me. Like today, at lunch, she said that it wasn't so much anything I did or even said, but just the way I used to look at you.”

Sometimes, Jared wishes that he was back in Chicago, or that Jensen was here with him. Seems like it would make things better, if they could just look at each other and not have to say anything like they used to. But sometimes, like tonight, he's glad that there's so much space between them, that they can talk without the inhibitions or distractions that being together always used to bring.

Makes it easier to say, “I guess it's weird, but I kind of feel better knowing.”

“Knowing what?”

“That there's some decent reason for it all.”

“Why's that?”

“I don't know.” Jared stands from his chair and leans against the balcony rail, hands braced there as he looks over the city, still vibrant and alive, below. “I think it just makes more sense than your other bullshit excuses.”

“They weren't bullshit,” Jensen defends, and Jared doesn't doubt that he believes that. It's not true, but Jensen probably disagrees. “They just weren't maybe totally… accurate.”

He can't help smiling. The answer is so Jensen. “I didn't know that then,” he says, and he didn't mean to take it here. Didn't mean for the conversation to get heavy. They don't do this. He and Jensen are working on being friends, not dwelling on the demise of their former “relationship.” He needs to work this out alone. Jensen can't help. “Back then, I thought you just wanted out.”

“What?” 

He sounds so affronted that Jared finds his defenses shooting up. “I didn't know,” he retorts, and then takes a breath to calm himself. “Jen. We were good. So fucking good. And then you. You were just done. What was I supposed to think? I just figured you wanted out.”

It hurts, thinking about that day, about the things they said to each other and remembering the way he wasn't sure he'd ever really breathe right again. It fucking hurts, but it also feels like maybe this is what they need. Maybe this is what Jared needs. Because maybe the only way to get around the pain is to go through it, to actually address it with the only person that can answer the questions that have been eating a hole in his gut for the last two years.

“Never wanted you to go,” Jensen finally says when the silence grows almost uncomfortable. “Damn-near killed me when you walked away, man. It was a shitty thing for me to do, asking you to choose between who you were and who I wanted you to be. I get that now. But don't you think for a fucking second that I wanted you to go. I stood there.” He stops and Jared hears another sharp inhale before Jensen goes on. “I stood there in the kitchen for I don't know how long, just waiting for you to come back. Hoping that you would.”

It's ironic. So much so that Jared has to chuckle and take another drink of his juice before he can make a confession of his own. “Well, I was standing in the hall, waiting for the same damn thing. Just praying that you would throw the door open and tell me that you were wrong and the whole thing was fucking ridiculous.”

He can still see that day so clearly in his mind.

  


His body shook so hard, he was sure he would fall over. Years. Fucking years of being with Jensen – knowing him, hanging out with him. Years just over. Like that.

Sliding down the wall, Jared stared at the door like he wasn't entirely convinced that he wasn't having some surreal dream. Nightmare. Surely, Jensen was going to yank the door open any second, roll his eyes, and tell Jared to stop being such a girl. He would laugh at the way Jared pulled his knees to his chest and rested his forehead against them. 

A part of him really wanted to barge back in there and punch Jensen square in the face. It wasn't some meaningless one-nighter. Jared wasn't some random drummer from some no-name band. They were in love. For real love. The kind that was supposed to trump every other fucking thing in the world. And Jensen was not supposed to throw that away because he was a motherfucking coward.

He wouldn't do that. Jensen wouldn't just break Jared's heart while he was standing there with his hands in his pockets. He wouldn't just end things like that. Not when they had plans and dreams and a life planned together. Jared had given up a job at Slide to stay at home in Chicago with Jensen – to live with Jensen and to be with Jensen. He had learned so much about who he was, what he loved, and what mattered from Jensen, just from being around him.

There was too much left in the tank. Things to do and words they hadn't said yet. Things Jared wanted to share, stories he still had to tell. Jensen didn't know about the final he aced yesterday yet. It felt like Jensen should know that since he helped Jared study for it. 

Everything was wrong. Jensen on the other side of the door was wrong. Jared, crying against his knees like some junior high girl, was wrong. The future that he refused to admit he planned to the very last detail didn't play out like this. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be fucking real.

  


“It wasn't ridiculous,” Jensen almost whispers in his ear. “We did the right thing, Jay. Even now, I know that we did. I loved you, so fucking much, but it just wasn't. Wasn't our time, man.”

He snorts a little at that. There was a time when they were undeniably indestructible. When they both thought they could take over the world, nothing would ever bring them down or drag them apart. “Who woulda thought that it would be bad fucking timing that finally tore us apart, huh? We were always so,” Jared lets the sentence trail off because he honestly doesn't know how to finish it. 

How in the hell do you define what he and Jensen were to each other? What they were together?

“Epic,” Jensen supplies. “We were fucking epic, man. _Dark Side of the Moon_ epic.”

And there it is. In vintage Jensen fashion. “ _Appetite for Destruction_ epic,” he counters.

Jensen snorts, and when he says, “You and Guns N’ Roses, man. Fuckin' hell,” Jared knows that they're done moping over what could have been. 

“Dude,” he starts, turning his back to lean against the railing, eyes falling on Aldis' friends, all drinking and high-fiving and laughing in the living room together. Fuck, he misses this guy on the other end of the phone. “Don't get me started on the genius that is Guns,” he warns.

Jensen's response is lazy, and for the first time, it occurs to Jared that he might not be smoking tobacco. “You're fuckin' lucky I'm not in the mood to prove you wrong.” Shit, what he wouldn't give to be lighting up with Jensen in the living room right now, listening to Beck and waxing philosophical about the textured ceiling of Jensen's apartment. 

“Dude, you couldn't. Even if the mood hit you. You don't have the vocabulary to convince me.”

“I'm a writer, too, ya know.”

“Yeah. You're just not as good as me.” 

“You're an asshole.”

Jared laughs. “Your comebacks suck ass.”

“You suck ass.”

“Been known to.”

Again, the answer is so automatic that he doesn't even think about it until he hears Jensen grunt, soft and low and dirty, on his side of the phone. Fuckin' hell, that grunt. “Pretty fuckin' well if I remember,” comes the voice, all weed and sex against Jared's ear.

“Like you could forget,” he aims for light, maybe hoping to make a joke of Jensen's words. Stop this thing before it goes too far. “Your ass has clocked more time in my mouth than anybody on the planet.” Jensen wasn't wrong in his blog a few months ago. Jared always did love rimming him. So much that he hasn't done it to anyone since. Just didn't feel right. Like that was something that was only Jensen's. Like it's not fair to the memory of what they were to give it to anyone else.

“Jay?” Jensen's voice is shaky, like he's fighting to control it and might be losing the battle.

“Yeah?”

“Unless you wanna take this conversation in a decidedly not-friendly direction, I suggest you move it along quick.”

He jumps a little at the implication, at the tone that he recognizes instantly in Jensen's voice. A part of him wants to let it go, to see where they can take this thing, if it will feel half as good as it used to. But the rational part of him knows that it will only fuck things up. And they've come way too far in the last few months to slide back now. 

“Yeah,” he nods and licks his lips, fingers raking through his hair as he breathes the cool air through his nose and searches for a topic that doesn't center around licking, sucking, or anything else that might bring Jensen's perfect mouth to mind. “Say, does your grandma still make those awesome butter cookies?”

  


“Jay, you got that interview with The Script ready?”

Casting a quick glance up from his screen, Jared nods at Sophia. “Give me three minutes. Spell checking,” he promises with the most sincere smile he can muster.

She nods and turns as Chad calls out, “Lookin' good, Soph.” She huffs and heads back to her own office in response.

“Bitch,” Chad mumbles under his breath.

Jared doesn't have time for Chad's bullshit about how unfair life is and how Sophia should be willing to give him a second chance. “Dude, she's got a right to be upset.”

“Whatever happened to forgiveness? That's all I'm sayin,” Chad spits, turning back to his computer and whatever he's pretending to be working on this week. Sometimes Jared wonders how he keeps his fucking job.

When he finishes, just under three minutes as promised, he e-mails it off and then swivels toward his friend. “Man, you can't blame her for being pissed, Chad. She really liked you, and you fucked around on her.”

“We weren't dating,” Chad replies. “I mean, we were, but we weren't exclusive or anything. It was casual.”

“Maybe she wanted more.”

“She never said that.” Chad leans back against the wall and crosses his ankles atop a pile of what Jared thinks are important papers. Who can be sure on Chad's desk, though? “I mean, not until after she found out about it. Then she was all sorts of interested, but before that? She never so much as alluded to the idea of monogamy.”

Jared tries to consider things from Chad's perspective. He's always identified with Sophia when the subject of her relationship with Chad comes up. He knows what it's like to be so into someone and have your heart broken so thoroughly you wonder if it will ever be put back together again. Something tells him to hear Chad out this time, though.

“Woulda freaked you out if she said anything, wouldn't it? You can't honestly tell me you were ready for it back then.” Jared knows Chad. There's no way he would have settled for monogamy with Sophia a year ago when everything fell apart.

“What if I am now?”

“Dude, you hurt her. Why would she give you another chance?”

Chad taps a pen on the desk and shrugs his shoulders, expression more thoughtful than Jared has come to know him to be. “Ya know what? You might be right.” He nods and then casts a longing look toward the door. “She might not be the right girl for me. Not if she wants someone who never fucks up.”

“Dude, there's flawed, and then there's unforgivable.” For the record, he realizes that he's not solely talking about Chad anymore.

With a nod, Chad lets his feet fall heavily to the floor. “True,” he nods, dusting one of the papers on the top of his pile with his pen. “But then there's fucking up and being a fuck up. Also two completely different things.”

He's not wrong. Jared knows he's not wrong. And that doesn't help the way he's been thinking about Jensen lately. At all.

  


“Jesus, you,” Tim laughs, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling, his breathing shallow and fast, “are so damn good at that.”

Jared nods and opens his mouth to answer, but his cell phone vibrates on the side table. Is it bad form to answer it after sex? At least he didn't pick it up the four times that it buzzed during.

The text is simple. It says, “ _Forty-three apple crates and one fucking box of tissue._ ” Jared has no idea what the hell Jensen is talking about, so he simply texts back, “ _I know, right?_ ” He's still chuckling, his foot running distractedly up and down Tim's thigh, when the reply comes. “ _You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?_ ” Jared types back a simple, “ _Nope_ ,” and then tosses his phone on the table and flops down next to his boyfriend.

  


The first day of his freshman creative writing seminar, Jared was talking to a cute little brunette named Genevieve. She was telling him a fascinating story about, uh, something fascinating, when his cell vibrated against his hip.

“Hold on just a second,” he held up a finger and checked the screen.

“ _Black balloons, a bottle of lube, and a stripper pole_.” Jared couldn't stifle his laugh as he texted back, “ _What the hell? Are you drunk_?” He tried to turn his attention back to Genevieve, but the response was quick. “ _It's 2 in the afternoon._ ” With a shake of his head, Jared responded with, “ _Kinda busy_.” Genevieve smiled ruefully when the phone sounded again. “ _Never 2 busy 4 me. Bitch_.” Jared snorted at that one. “ _Nice attempt at text-speak, loser_.”

“Girlfriend?” Genevieve asked, and when Jared shook his head, she nodded like she understood. “Boyfriend, huh? Figures.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“All the good ones, man.” She sighed and started pulling a laptop out of her bag.

Jared just laughed at the inference. “Jensen's not my boyfr-,” he stopped to laugh again. “He's just a friend. My best friend.”

To that, Genevieve patted his arm and rolled her eyes. “Keep tellin' yourself that, Pollyanna.”

  


“Jensen, right?” Tim's voice invades his thoughts and Jared shrugs in response.

The truth is that he's been waiting for this conversation for awhile now. He trades e-mails and texts with Jensen all day. Sometimes they call each other in the afternoon, if something happens that just can't wait until later. Jared has skipped out of spending time with Tim in the evening on more than one occasion, and though he doesn't admit he's doing it to talk to Jensen, Tim's not stupid. He has to have figured it out by now.

With a nod, Jared rolls over and buries his face in Tim's neck. He's a good guy. He's hot, in that geek chic, New York kind of way that drives Jared a little more wild than he likes to admit, and he's hella smart. Fascinating and cultured and interested in so many of the same things Jared is. He does have some questionable hip hop on his iPod, but nobody's perfect and it's never bothered Jared the way he knows it would bother Jensen.

“We gonna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

Tim pulls away and looks at Jared, dark eyebrow raised. “You know what.” When Jared doesn't say anything, he clarifies, “The fact that you're still in love with your ex?” Jared huffs and Tim rolls his eyes. “Look, man, I get it, okay? Everybody has that person they just can't let go. One person that they'll probably never be rid of, no matter how far and how long they run. I get that.” He 'oomph's as he sits, arms draped over his bony knees. “I just need to know if you're even going to start running at some point.”

Raising an eyebrow, Jared stretches back on the bed and thinks this is maybe a conversation they should be wearing pants to have. “What are you talking about?” Is he playing dumb? Yeah. Is he aware of it? Maybe a little. “Jensen's my friend, Tim. That's all.” 

He's never bothered to mention the indiscretion back in Chicago four months ago. It would only upset his boyfriend, and there was no fucking so Jared has convinced himself that it wasn't exactly cheating. Also, it was Jensen and that's always going to fit into a different category in his head. Maybe he's an asshole for not saying anything, but Jared tells himself he can live with that, as long as he doesn't think about it much.

By the time he realizes what's going on, Tim already has his pants on and is pulling his shirt over his shoulders. “We're not on the same page here, man. And if you were just friends with an old ex, I wouldn't say a damn thing. But this is more, and I'm not gonna be the one laying next to you when you wake up and figure out you're in love with somebody else.”

Jared thinks maybe he should go after Tim, tell him that he's wrong and put a little more effort into making things work with a guy who's been nothing but great since the day they met. Instead, he waits until his bedroom door closes and then stands up to find a pair of sweats. Tim's right – they've been together for eleven months and it's never going to be more than this. He's never going to be in love with him and he's not even really trying to be. 

His default impulse is to grab the phone and call Jensen – confess that he doesn't feel more guilty about this whole thing than maybe he should. But there's still some things he can't really talk to Jensen about, and the fact that his boyfriend broke up with him because he's convinced Jared's still in love with Jensen is definitely one of those things.

Making his way into the kitchen, he grabs a beer and listens to the sounds of the television in the next room. Aldis is playing some game and Steve is plucking his guitar on the couch next to him. Jared drops into the armchair beside them and keeps his eyes fixed on the TV.

“I'm sorry, do I know you?” Steve asks.

Jared rolls his eyes and hands two more beer bottles to Steve. They're not the best of friends or anything, he and his roommates. Aldis is probably home the most and that's because he allegedly works from his room. Jared's still not sure what he does, but it has something to do with computers and he always pays his rent on time, so who really fucking cares? Steve's a struggling musician who plays for change in the subway and does a few local club gigs. He's also a trust fund baby whose father still pays his rent and all of their utilities even though Steve's over thirty.

Of the three, Jared probably has the most “normal” schedule, but even he spends more time out of town and at gigs than he does in the loft. It's not that they don't get along – they do, pretty fucking well for three guys who met through an ad on the internet – but they just don't see each other enough to be good friends. Still, Jared needs to talk, and these are the only two sets of ears he has available at the moment. 

“Tim ran outta here in a hurry,” Steve observes, leading into the conversation for Jared.

He nods and tilts his bottle to his lips. “Took the time to break up with me first.”

“Ouch,” Aldis interjects, but the head of his game character just got ripped off, so it's possible he's not even really listening to his roommates at all.

“Because of Jensen?” Steve asks.

Jared would pretend to be shocked, like he doesn't know what Steve's talking about, but who would believe him? He nods. “Thinks I'm in love with him still.”

“Because you are,” Aldis says.

“I was. A long time ago.”

“So, two hours is a long time ago now?” Jared raises an eyebrow at Aldis' question. “Cause you were readin' me that blog he wrote before Tim came over and you were clearly lovestruck then. I'm just sayin'.”

“So just because I read a blog, it's true love? I read Daniel Kreps's blog over at Rolling Stone all the time, man. Ya think I'm in love with him, too?”

“It's a possibility,” Aldis shrugs and returns his attention to the game he's playing, pretty much signaling the end of his involvement in this conversation. 

They don't say much more, Jared stuck more in his own thoughts while Steve picks at his guitar strings and Aldis trash talks his video game. Sometimes he doesn't need to talk shit out. Sometimes it helps just having someone in the room.

  


“You're going out?”

Jensen shoved his wallet into his back pocket and nodded. “I told you. Gotta do a write-up on Battle of the Bands over at the school. Your school, by the way. You should totally be handling this one.”

“Those bands all suck. Stay here.” He was well-aware of just how desperate he sounded, but Jared really didn't care at the moment. 

Without responding, Jensen crossed the room and leaned on the back of Jared's chair, his chin resting on the top of Jared's head. “What're ya workin' on?”

“Paper. For my Social Change in the United States class.” Jensen huffed and stood, his hand ghosting over the back of Jared's neck. “It's that sociology credit I told you I had to pick up.” The paper itself wasn't the problem. “I can't concentrate.”

“And you want me to stick around and what? Be your cheerleader?” 

Jared shrugged. That was, in fact, exactly what he wanted Jensen to do. He never really admitted it, but he'd grown accustomed to having Jensen around when he was trying to write. It just made things easier. He couldn't explain it, and he didn't even want to think about the reasons, he just knew that it had been a fact since high school.

Jensen pressed a kiss to the top of his head and pulled away from the chair. “I'll be back before you realize I'm gone,” he promised, and he was out the door before Jared could even think of a retort. 

Of course, he was back five minutes later. “You're sure they all suck? We're not missin' out on a scoop?” he asked.

Shaking his head, Jared stood and stretched his arms over his head. “Terrible. All of 'em. Tom could play better and you know how awesome he's not,” he promised, grabbing Jensen's wrist as he strode by on his way to the kitchen. After a brief kiss that turned out to be not-so-brief, Jared patted Jensen's ass and sat back down. “Now go watch television or somethin'. I got work to do.”

  


Of course, Jared isn't stupid, so the fact that his thoughts just keep coming around to Jensen doesn't pass him by or anything. Nor does the fact that he should probably be thinking more about the year-long relationship that just fell apart around him than the one he's been building with Jensen for the last four months.

“I'll be on the balcony,” he announces to no one in particular as he stands from the chair and heads outside. Does his best thinking here anyway, it seems.

The thing is, Jensen broke his heart. And for a long time, Jared's been using that as an excuse to be angry, to hold Jensen at arm's length. He's been telling himself that he doesn't need a guy like Jensen in his life, someone who can't even come to terms with who he is, let alone be what Jared needs. And when he thought that Jensen was still some dumb ass, closet-case blogger who considered himself in a league with the musicians he writes about, that wasn't so difficult.

Parts of that guy are still in there. The one who doesn't really feel comfortable talking about his sexuality or who he's fucking around with. The one who hangs out backstage at shows, rubbing elbows with rock stars, and then heads home to write about it instead of actually being able to make the music he loves so much. The one who acts like nothing in the world matters as much as the perfect song, synced up to the perfect moment in time.

But there's another side to Jensen now. One that Jared's been getting to know recently. A side that is trying to be okay with who he is, opening up on what he thinks and feels about things. The one who still gets excited about a new band, but who sits and listens to Jared talk about the ones he's feeling at the moment, as well. This guy has learned that the perfect song won't make everything better, but he still looks for the perfect song anyway.

And Jared realizes, as midnight rolls in over the Atlantic, that Chad was right. Jensen fucked up, but he's not a fuck up. He may have stumbled into change accidentally, but he's trying to hide from it anymore. He finally figured out how to stop being an idiot.

Jared's not still in love with Jensen. He's fallen in love with him all over again.

Of course, knowing it and doing something about it are two totally different things. When he finally heads to bed around three, his phone is ringing on his desk.

“Shouldn't you be in bed?” he asks Jensen.

With a snort, Jensen responds with a dry, “What? And let you miss out on the pleasure of telling me good night? Come on, Jay. You know I wouldn't do that to you.”

He could tell Jensen about Tim, or he could talk about his three-hour think session on the balcony. There are a thousand things he probably needs to say, and about a thousand more he wants to. What he actually settles on is, “Don't know how I'd survive without ya, man.”

“Damn right you don't. Now shut up and listen to this. Are you listening?” Jared grumbles to the affirmative and lays back on his bed. “Alright, then. You remember a couple months ago I sent you that download for that band, Alaska and Me?”

“Yeah. I added 'em in my up-and-comers column right after that.”

“Right. Well, tag team, back again,” Jensen chuckles and Jared narrows his eyes, focusing his gaze on the ceiling. “They signed with Virgin about a week after our write-ups came out. The web traffic and the online sales that our articles generated caught the ear of the A&R guy there. They're headed for the big time, man.” 

“Fuckin' A, man,” Jared smiles brightly. It used to happen all the time. When he and Jensen champion a cause together? People listen. Maybe he thinks it's a little prophetic to find out they still have it. Professionally, of course. “That's awesome, Jen. They must be psyched.”

“They are.” Jensen's voice drops out, and when he speaks again, it's without any of the signature bravado that Jared's grown re-accustomed to hearing over the last few months. “And I'm sure you'll hear from 'em or whatever, but thanks, Jay. For throwing their name out there. For trusting my instincts.”

With a sigh, he runs his hand over his face and says, “Nobody's instincts I trust more than yours, Ackles.”

It's the truth. 

He loves the guy. And he's going to tell Jensen. Just as soon as he can be sure that it's not going to bite him in the ass.

  


Maybe this is exactly the way it was always supposed to happen.

Ian, the drummer from Alaska and Me, called Jensen a week ago and told him that his presence was required at their album release party in New York on October 28. He said his thanks before politely declining for about a thousand reasons. Not the least of which was the churning in his stomach at the thought of seeing Jared.

But Bethany, the perky keyboardist, didn't seem to care that Jensen is crazy in love and terrified of actually seeing the object of that affection in person again when she called, begging him to reconsider. She claimed that they “needed” him there, and that they're “nothing” without him and his support. It was the most melodramatic bunch of bullshit Jensen has ever heard and, being the egomaniac that he is, it worked like a charm.

So here he is in New York, crammed into a club that is packed to capacity with drunken idiots and executives trying to play cool when they're clearly standing out like a sore thumb on the perimeters of the room. It's been awhile since he's been to a major label function, and he can't say it's much different than the indie ones in Chicago.

Of course, he spots Jared almost immediately – it's hard not to, what with the guy being roughly the size of a California Redwood and all – standing at the bar, drinking from a long-neck and chatting comfortably with a redhead in low-slung jeans. Jared's eyes scan the room periodically, but don't appear to be looking for anyone in particular. He's just enjoying the moment that he's in, like Jared always does.

If he's honest with himself, Jared is both the reason Jensen didn't want to come and the reason he decided to do it anyway. He loves the kid, and he always fucking will. It's been almost six months since they sort of hooked up in Chicago, since they started rebuilding this thing between them, and it's been awesome. Jared's growing into the kind of man Jensen always saw himself spending the rest of his life with, and that part doesn't really surprise him all that much. Jared always was the perfect guy for Jensen.

Unfortunately, he knows Jared well enough to know what pulling away looks like, and that's what has been happening for the last few weeks. He doesn't have concrete proof, and he can't point to any one thing that signaled a bump in the otherwise smooth road they've been traveling to re-acquaintance, but something is different now. He showed up tonight to support a band he believes in, but also to figure out why the hell Jared's acting weird. Figures at least this way, he can't say that he's tired or has an article due or whatever. He has to answer Jensen, face-to-face.

He's about to cross the distance between them when the band takes the stage to thundering applause and thanks everyone for coming out to celebrate their big night with them. Jensen's barely paying attention when he hears Tyler, the lead singer, say, “This first song we're gonna play is for a very close friend of the band. He's believed in us since day one, and gone out of his way to make sure that other people did, too. So,” he chugs the remainder of his beer and then sets the bottle on a stool nearby before returning to the microphone, “This one's for you, Jensen.”

As the opening strains of “Silver Screens and Pseudo Scenes” breaks through the cheering, Jensen just nods his head toward the band before risking another glance toward the bar.

Surprised eyes are fixed on him and Jensen doesn't know what to do with the look Jared's sending his way, so he awkwardly raises his hand and then drinks from his beer and waits. 

It's ridiculous, really. They're friends. Whatever is going on in Jared's life that is causing him to distance himself from Jensen even a little bit, doesn't change that. It doesn't mean they can't even approach each other in a bar. Hell, the last time they met up like this, Jared waved him over like they'd never been apart. Now that things are good, they're going to get weird?

Fuck it. Jensen makes his way over, until he's standing right in front of the guy. He smiles cordially to the young woman at Jared's side and extends his hand. “Jensen,” he introduces himself.

She catches her lip between her teeth and then laughs. “Well, spank my ass and fuck me hard! Jensen Ackles.” He nearly chokes when she accepts his handshake and then slips away from the bar. “Sophia. I'm just gonna,” pausing, her eyes twinkle in the low bar lights, “stop trying to think of an excuse and leave you two alone.”

She saunters off and Jensen watches her go before returning his gaze to the man in front of him. “You work with her?” 

Jared nods. “She's pretty awesome,” he assures Jensen, taking another drink like it's water and he's dehydrated. “So, I didn't know you were coming. Did I know you were coming? You didn't tell me, did you?”

“Nah,” Jensen shakes his head. “Just decided the other night. Thought I might surprise ya.”

“Well, color me surprised.”

The look between them is something, Jensen just doesn't know what. “Um,” he stammers because this isn't right. Something isn't right. The comfort and the ease that they've shared on the phone for the last six months is just gone. The way they were together back in Chicago for that one night isn't here, either. Everything is off and Jensen doesn't know why or how to make it right again. 

“Dude, can we just,” Jared stops himself and shakes his head. “Can we get outta here?”

They make it out the front door and down a block before Jensen says, “What the fuck is going on with you?”

Jared doesn't stop moving, just nods his head toward the subway tunnel and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Come on. I wanna show you something.”

They walk through the station for awhile, Jared smiling and nodding in the direction of several musicians who wave back. It's phenomenal, really, the underground world of artists this city has to offer. He can't help wondering why in the hell nobody is signing some of these people, why they're hidden away like a dirty secret in the underbelly while talentless hacks who look good in leather strut around with far too much money and attention topside.

Neither says anything, but they don't have to. Occasionally, Jensen will look at Jared and Jared will smile back with this beaming look that says he's been wanting to show Jensen this world for years, that he knew it would spin his head around and turn his soul inside out. 

By the time they board the A, Jensen isn't exactly sure what he's supposed to be thinking. Jared seems tense, but he keeps smiling and nodding to a beat inside his own head. It's the most beautiful thing Jensen has ever fucking seen. 

Jared's hand falls against his back when they get off the train in Brooklyn, and he allows himself be steered, fighting like hell not to melt into the warm touch. He knows he's leaning back a little bit, but Jared's chest is brushing his back and it feels too damn good in the autumn chill to worry about propriety at the moment. 

They stop in front of this guy with shoulder-length blonde waves and a guitar, standing next to a woman with thick black curls, beating a steady rhythm against a wooden crate between her knees. They're decent. Not star material or anything, but good, and when they finish the song, the guy's smile nearly splits his face in half. 

“Hey!” He half-hugs Jared and then turns toward Jensen. “Who're you?”

“Uh, Steve,” Jared smiles sheepishly, hand raking through his hair, “This is Jensen.”

Steve's eyes go wide and he nearly drops his guitar when he extends his hand in greeting. “Fuckin' hell, man. Jensen,” he shakes his head in disbelief. “Feel like I already know ya, man.”

Jensen isn't sure if he should already know who this guy is, but he shakes his hand and shoots a confused look in Jared's direction. Steve. Does he know a Steve? That name sounds familiar. 

“Jen, this is my roommate, Steve.”

Right! Jared's filthy rich roommate who likes to pretend he's a starving artist. “I've heard a lot about you, too, man,” he smiles and then feels Jared's hand on his back again.

“Is Aldis home?”

Steve tears his eyes from Jensen and then shakes his head at Jared. “Place is all yours for the night,” he winks, and Jared rolls his eyes before directing Jensen toward a flight of stairs.

“So that's the kid with more money than sense, huh?” Jensen asks when Jared leads off to the left. 

Jared nods and slows just a bit to let Jensen fall into step. “He's a good guy.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence, and Jensen follows Jared into his building and up the stairs. It feels like they climb forever, but eventually they end up on the seventh floor and head down to the end of the hall. 

Jared unlocks the door and shoulders into the kitchen, stepping aside to let Jensen pass into the room. “You want a beer?” he asks after he's locked the front door, not really waiting for an answer before grabbing two from the fridge and handing one over.

Jensen thanks him with a nod and twists the bottle open, eyes darting around the room. It's not the nicest place he's ever been in, but it's about five times bigger than his own apartment, and the exposed brick and the distressed, hardwood floors give it an air of lived-in artistry. 

“Come on,” Jared nods over his shoulder and leads Jensen through the living room and out onto the balcony. 

It's funny, standing here like this. Jensen has pictured this very spot a thousand times, talking to Jared and imagining him sitting here with the phone against his ear and his legs all sprawled out, but it never looks like this in his head. It's so narrow and, well, small. The chair, pressed up against the wall, is barely two feet from the railing. There's a plastic table and another chair on the other side and room for nothing else. Now every time he thinks about Jared sitting out here, he's going to get the image of the giant guy squeezing himself into the front seat of a Volkswagen or something.

“So this is it, huh?”

  


“This is it,” Jared responds, resting his hip against the railing.

It's pretty obvious that Jensen has figured out something's wrong with him in the last few weeks. Jared never set out to act differently around him, but sometimes, no matter how well you know someone, it's impossible to figure out what to say. Especially when you figure out that you're in love and you're just not sure about it.

Oh, Jared is sure that he's in love with Jensen. But he's not nineteen anymore and romanticism isn't what it used to be. 

He lives in New York, Jensen's in Chicago. They both love their respective cities and Jared just can't see either of them moving any time soon. He's not sure he can do this thing long distance, not once it becomes more than it already is.

And then there's the issue of trust. Jared trusts Jensen's word on music and believes that the guy doesn't lie to him. What he's not sure he fully trusts is that Jensen's not going to get spooked and call the whole thing off again. Or worse, that he's not going to change his own mind about it. 

Sure, he loves Jensen, but who the hell knows if they have what it takes to go the distance this time. He thought they did before, believed it in his bones, and he turned out to be completely fucking wrong. What if it doesn't work again?

Also, there's a possibility that he could lay his heart on the line and Jensen might not be interested. He seemed like he was when the whole 'coming out' thing first went down. But it's been months. Long enough for Jared to change his mind, to fall in love again. What if it's also long enough for Jensen to change his? To fall out of love with Jared? To figure out that he was just holding onto the past as hard as Jared was running from it, and that it's nothing more than a few nice memories of what 'used to be'?

He isn't certain and that's the kicker. He knows a hell of a lot about Jensen, but he doesn't know this. How to do it, what to say? And its pretty fucking obvious that Jensen knows something is up, but Jared can't figure out how to tell him.

“Dude, you're kinda freakin' me out a little bit,” Jensen finally smiles, forced and thin as he tilts his beer bottle and leans against the railing, elbows back, drawing his button-down tight across his chest. 

“Remember how much you hated Audioslave back in the day? Like when they released "Cochise,” you wouldn't even listen to the damn song all the way through. Said it was a vain attempt to reconstruct greatness out of the broken pieces of perfection.” Jared chuckles and takes a drink, his eyes fixed on the glittering lights of the city over Jensen's shoulder. 

“I loved Rage, man,” Jensen begins to defend himself. “And Soundgarden? First show Josh took me to back in seventh grade. Didn't feel right to shove it all together in pieces and pretend it was something else.”

Jared nods. This is why he loves Jensen – music is a part of him at a cellular level. Everything he thinks, feels, and knows is directly related to what he's listening to at the time. When he can't talk about what's going on in his life, he lets the music do it for him. And he never stops believing that it's important, that it can change the world, that it matters. Jared lost some of the idealism he used to have, but Jensen never has. He just keeps holding tight to the one thing that has never let him down.

“But you came around,” Jared recalls, shaking his head and taking another drink. “Just announced over the table at Jimmy's that you were lifting the embargo. “Like a Stone” was playing, and you said that it was time to admit that the sum of the parts, while never being the same, were greater than the collective used-to-bes or could-have-beens.” 

Jensen looks up and says, “You gonna show me the rest of the house or what?” 

Jared doesn't know if he's just stalling or if he has no idea what they're talking about. Maybe he's not being as clear as he thinks he is. Maybe Jensen's just cold. Who knows?

Whatever the reason, Jared nods his head and leads the way back into the apartment. “So this is the living room,” he motions vaguely, and Jensen snorts behind him. “You wanted to see the house.”

“Yeah,” Jensen agrees. “Thinkin' maybe you could show me your room.” He's so close that Jared can feel his breath against his ear. 

“Sure.” He pushes the door open and stands back to let Jensen pass. 

For the longest time, Jensen walks around the considerably insignificant space, touching Jared's guitar pick collection on the book shelf and studying the concert posters taped to the wall above his desk. He skims his fingers over the window sill and then turns, leaning his hip against the edge of the nightstand. 

“Jensen, what I was trying to say,” Jared swallows his nerves. It's scary as hell, the thought of losing Jensen again. But that's nothing compared to the fear of knowing for the rest of his life that he never even fucking tried. “Outside, the whole Audioslave thing,” he starts again, stumbling over words like he hasn't since high school.

Setting his beer on the desk, Jensen steps right into whatever delusion of personal space he has and rests his hands on Jared's hips. “I'm not an idiot, Jay,” he whispers, lips brushing the underside of Jared's chin. “I get the heavy-handed metaphor, okay?”

And then Jensen is kissing him and it's nothing like Chicago. It's sure, confident, and possessive. It's dry lips and wet tongues, and fingers that grip tight to hips and shoulders. It's sobering and intoxicating all at once.

He doesn't know how long they stand there, feet planted as they map each other’s mouths with their tongues, swallowing moans and slowly rolling their hips against each other. Jared's jeans are getting increasingly tighter, but he's not moving until Jensen does. Jared always used to set the pace with them, but this isn't what it used to be. This is new, and it feels like Jensen should take the lead.

Eventually, he does, pulling back long enough to unbutton his shirt and sink onto Jared's bed. “Come 'ere,” he gestures with his head and pulls Jared forward by his belt, deftly undoing the buckle and then the button. 

He busies himself with taking his own shirt off while Jensen unzips him and pushes his jeans over his hips. “Jen, if we do this,” Jared starts and then stops himself. He doesn't want a forever promise or anything, but he needs something to assure him that Jensen's on the same page. That this isn't just some fling from the way back again for him.

Shifting his hips enough to push his own jeans off, Jensen speaks low in the silence. “I know I'm not deserving of your trust from you right now, but if by chance you change your mind, just know I will not let you down.”

Jared snorts, pushing Jensen back against the mattress to straddle his hips. Jensen has always used song lyrics to express himself when he can't find his own words, and while the line from Missy Higgins' “The Special Two” might fit what he's thinking, it's still ridiculous. “You're seriously quoting lesbian piano pop to me right now?” 

Jensen rolls his eyes and leans in, hands on the cuts of Jared's hips and forehead resting against his chest. His fingers flex against the warm skin, and Jared just rests his chin on the top of Jensen's head. For a second, this is enough. Intimacy – nostalgic and new at the same time – without the immediate need for anything else. After years or pretending that he doesn't need it, and months of fighting that he does, Jared takes a second just to have this.

There's a point, though, when the moment turns awkward. Squeezing the back of Jensen's neck, he asks, “You gonna wanna cuddle all night or we actually gonna get on with this?”

The second that Jensen looks up through lowered lashes and levels Jared with that wicked grin he's nearly forgotten, he knows that he said exactly the right thing. “You got somethin' in mind, Jay?”

Jared smirks and lays back on the bed at Jensen's side, legs splayed, resting on his elbows as Jensen watches over his shoulder. “Can think of a few things maybe.”

It's all slow motion and unhurried when Jensen rolls onto his side and drags his fingers down the center of Jared's chest. His nose and lips brush against Jared's stubbled jaw but he makes no move to kiss him. It's like they have all the time in the world, as if there's no rush anymore. Nobody's going to interrupt them, and nobody is going to get spooked and run. There is only this, the two of them, and it fucking means something. 

Jensen's lips trail his jaw and the point of his tongue draws over the column of Jared's throat, his chest rising and falling against Jared's side while his thigh presses insistently between Jared's, tight against his hardening cock. He can barely breathe at all by the time Jensen's teeth scrape over his nipple and he can't stop his hands from gripping the sheets beneath his fingers.

“God, Jen, yeah,” he hears himself hiss and feels Jensen's low chuckle rumbling against his chest. How is it possible that he forgot just how good Jensen is at this? Last time was too rushed to really appreciate the things he has forgotten over time.

He slithers down Jared's body, mapping every muscle as he goes. If Jared didn't know better, he'd think Jensen was trying to reacquaint himself with all of the places he used to love or something. His tongue traces the outline of Jared's abs while his fingers trail softly over his ribs and hip bones. 

“Christ, Jensen,” Jared finally hears himself whine when Jensen bypasses his cock all together and instead settles on raking his teeth over the insides of Jared's thighs. “Man, come on!”

Jensen pulls back, eyes lidded and shining. “Gotta make sure everything's where I left it,” he grins, all mischievous and amused with himself, especially when Jared rolls his eyes. “Make sure it still works like it should.”

“You're an idiot,” Jared laughs, but it's bitten off by a groan when Jensen drags the flat of his tongue over the side of Jared's dick and then makes an obscene slurping sound as he seals his lips over the head. Yeah, that still works just fine.

Nobody sucks his cock like a fucking pro the way Jensen can. And it's possible that Jared tells him that, though there's also nobody on the fucking planet who renders his brain quite as useless as Jensen does, so he can't be sure exactly what's coming out of his mouth at the moment.

When Jensen pulls off with a pop and looks up again, there's a dirty smile on his shiny red lips. “How do you wanna do this, Jay?” His fingers rake over Jared's legs and it takes a second for Jared's brain to get on board with the question. “In my mouth? My hand?” He turns his face and rubs his cheek against Jared's thigh. “How 'bout my ass, Jay? You wanna fuck me?

Jesus fuckin' Christ, Jared wants to fuck Jensen. He wants all three options at the same time, wishes there was some way to make it happen. He wants everything, all at once, and fuck how much time they have to make it right. He sure as hell doesn't care about right at the moment - not with his dick granite-hard and Jensen naked on the bed between his shaking legs. All he can fucking think is right now.

His brain is apparently working independently of his body, though, because what he says is, “Want you to fuck me.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I'm fucking sure,” Jared snaps and then chuckles when Jensen does. He wants to come, but not half as bad as he wants to feel Jensen buried deep inside him for the first time in years. “Just, lube's in there.”

Jensen finds it easily and quirks an eyebrow. “You're absolutely sure about this?” 

The question, Jared supposes, is understandable. They used to switch it up back in the day, but Jensen bottomed more often. Plus, he realizes, he's kind of holding his breath and his body is tense, so maybe the evidence points toward a need to be concerned.

Breathing slowly through his nose, Jared nods and lifts himself up on his elbows. “I'm sure,” he nods. This is what he wants. “Just... go slow, okay?”

Jensen smirks. “Been awhile, Jay?”

“Almost three years,” he answers with brutal honesty. 

With a nod, Jensen pops the cap on the bottle and then freezes. Their eyes meet and he looks a little startled. “Seriously?”

He's had other partners, but none of them have ever fucked him – nobody has since Jensen. He was the first, and he'll always be the only. He doesn't say that, fairly certain that Jensen will roll his eyes or possibly get freaked out and leave. They're on the same page here, Jared knows that, but it's not like they're going to move to Canada, get married and start adopting babies any time soon or anything. Which, in his sex-addled brain, is what 'You're the only one who'll ever fuck me in the ass' translates to.

He settles for a nod and doesn't have time for much else because Jensen's cool, slick fingers are working him open and he's leaning forward to suck on that place below Jared's ear that has always driven him fucking crazy. 

Then Jensen pulls away, sits back on his knees and just looks at Jared. He's rolling a condom on with one hand and using the other to cup Jared's balls, gaze penetrating and hypnotic. He doesn't say a word, but his thoughts are crystal clear and it punches Jared in the gut just how familiar this really is. 

“I hate it when you do that,” he hisses when Jensen guides himself over Jared's hole, not bothering to push forward but content to just rub the head of his cock back and forth until Jared's thighs start to shake.

“Do what?” Jensen asks, as if he really has no idea what Jared's talking about. It’s like he doesn’t know that he’s staring in this way that could either be lust or judgment, Jared can never tell. While he always figures he knows the answer – Jensen is about to fuck him after all – it's still unnerving and it always has been.

Wrapping Jensen's wrist with his fingers, Jared squeezes and rolls his hips forward. “Stop teasing me and fucking do it, man,” he insists, and then gasps when the head of Jensen's cock presses into him.

“Hold on there, Jumpy,” Jensen chuckles, one hand stroking up and down Jared's thigh as he inches forward. “Tryin' to be gentle here.”

Jared rolls his eyes. “Not my first fuckin' time, Jensen,” he grunts, trying his best to help out, to take him further. Yeah, it's been awhile, but he's going to be ninety, and possibly go blind from lack of blood to his brain, if Jensen doesn't pick up the pace a little bit. 

“Jay,” Jensen's voice is soft, but firm. “Relax.” He leans forward, the angle shifts and he slides further into Jared, causing a high-pitched whimper that Jared would really rather they neither mention again. 

He didn't realize how tense he was until Jensen issued the order to relax. But when Jensen's lips are on his throat again - Jared's not sure why that's always been so reassuring - he feels his muscles release and his body open up. Jensen grunts as he bottoms out and Jared's head flops back against the pillow.

“Fuck,” he groans. “So fuckin' good inside me, Jen.”

“Shit yeah, it is,” Jensen growls his agreement while moving one hand to grab Jared's neck. He smashes their mouths together and it's so fucking perfect that Jared can do little more than wrap his legs around Jensen's thighs, his arms around his shoulders, and try his best to become a part of the man blanketing him.

His moans are swallowed up by Jensen's tongue and then fed back to him as they find a rhythm that is different than Jared remembers, but better than any memory. They rock together, his cock trapped hard between his and Jensen's body, Jensen's filling and stretching him. Yeah, it's better.

“Fuck,” Jensen tears his mouth away and pants heavy. “You've always been shit for my stamina,” he grumbles, hips punching forward in a more erratic rhythm. 

Jared grabs the pillow at his side and clutches it, back arching away from and back into the mattress in an effort to keep up. He uses the hand not anchoring him to the bed to reach for his own cock. 

With a growl, Jensen's fist closes over Jared's as his body stutters and he comes. The pressure on Jared's dick is about as good as anything has ever felt and he fucks into their joined fingers until he's coming over both of their hands just a minute after Jensen.

In the afterglow, Jensen doesn't speak and Jared follows his lead. He feels Jensen's lips against the bend of his neck and he rolls his head in a silent whisper of permission, but there's nothing to say. It's not like before, when they cracked jokes or continued whatever conversation the sex interrupted in the first place. And it's not like Chicago, where everything was off and wrong as soon as they were done. 

This is something entirely different, Jared realizes when he feels Jensen's breathing even out, face still pressed against Jared's shoulder. This is peaceful, easy, comfortable silence. This, he thinks, is how it feels when you're about to fall asleep next to the person you can't deny, no matter how hard or how long you've tried.

  


Jensen is through security and on his way to his gate when his cell phone rings against his hip at ten the next morning. Jared mumbled a good-bye when Jensen left his place a couple of hours ago, but he wasn't really awake. He won't remember it now.

“Good morning, Princess.”

“You're not here,” Jared grumbles into the phone, and Jensen can imagine his hair sticking out, his fingers scratching against his morning stubble.

“No, I'm not,” Jensen agrees easily. It wasn't easy leaving that apartment this morning, but he has to get back to Chicago by afternoon so he can make it to a birthday party for The Anaconda Plan's drummer.

It almost sounds like he's pouting when Jared says, “You left your lighter.”

“I did, huh?” Along with his wallet, that lighter is the only thing Jensen never leaves behind when he goes out. Jared knows that. “Ah well, probably be easier to get through security without it.”

“I'll send it back to ya later today,” Jared groans and Jensen can hear him moving around. He's not about to tell the little old lady sitting across from the seat he drops into at the gate why he's smiling like an idiot right now. She probably doesn't care that he reconciled, more than once, with the one that got away last night, or that he left the guy moving a little slower than usual this morning. 

“It's cool, man. Don't worry about it.” 

“Jensen, it's your lighter. I'm not gonna listen to you bitch for the next however long about how you don't have it, and how I better not be using it, and how you're gonna kick my ass if anything happens to it.”

Stretching his legs, Jensen checks his watch and then tilts his head to look at the ceiling. “Five weeks,” he says distractedly. “There's gum on the ceiling tile,” he observes randomly.

“What?”

“At the airport. There's gum on the ceiling tile.” 

“Of course there is.” Jared is quiet for a minute, like he always is when Jensen says something he doesn't understand. “Five weeks?”

“Thanksgiving.”

“Thanksgiving is in five weeks? Jensen, I just woke up. What the fuck are you talking about?”

With a chuckle, Jensen lowers his head and picks at the beginnings of a hole in the thigh of his old jeans. “I figure you might be plannin' on coming home for Thanksgiving?” There's a grunt and Jensen's not sure what it means. “And if you're not, I figure my family's seen me stuff enough turkey in my mouth over the years, so I could always come to New York, if you want. Either way, I figure you can keep the lighter safe until Thanksgiving.”

“I'm going. Or you're coming? We're spending Thanksgiving together?” He can practically see Jared scratch his head. “Did we talk about this?”

“Do we need to?”

He holds his breath and waits for Jared's answer. Because Jensen's pretty sure he knows what last night and early this morning meant. But what if he's wrong? 

“No. Of course we are. I mean, obviously,” Jared stumbles over his words and then stops. Jensen hears him swallow and waits for the next, deeper and slightly more coherent, statement. “Alright. So, Thanksgiving then.”

He settles back into the hard chair and closes his eyes as Jared starts talking about how Sophia's going to be calling him any minute to find out what happened after they left last night and about how he might go into the office, even though it's Sunday, because he has so much work to do right now. He throws in a 'yeah' or a 'really?' when appropriate, but mostly just enjoys the sound of Jared's voice in his ear.

He still has no idea how this is going to work. Jared still lives in New York, and Jensen's still in Chicago. There are still question marks. But despite the uncertainty, Jensen is sure. It's the same as when he hears a new band and can't explain why they're going to be huge, he just feels it. 

" _The really great songs,_ " Jared once wrote in an editorial that Jensen will never forget, " _are the ones that hit us where we live, challenge how we think, and alter the way we see the world. They are the ones that we carry with us and that immediately take us back to the first time we heard them, even years after we thought we forgot. They reflect who we've been and who we are, and inspire who we will become._ "


End file.
